


Honey Pies

by whichstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Baker Castiel, Curses, Dean/Cas Big Bang, Diamonds and toads (Fairy tale) - Freeform, Engineer Dean Winchester, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Kiss, Fluff, Food Trucks, M/M, MANY PIES, Magic, Pies, Speech Disorders, Witch Curses, assistive technology, food carts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-24 23:56:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21346900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: Once upon a time there was a boy who did something good for a stranger…and was cursed for his kindness. When Castiel was young he gave a hungry traveler pie. In return, she bespelled him: whenever he spoke, fresh mini-pies fell from his lips. From that day on, he never spoke lest he reveal the forbidden magic that inhabited him.Now Castiel sells pies from his food truck, Honey Pies, and silence is second nature.One day he meets Dean Winchester, an engineer who promises a miracle. After years of solitude and secrets, can Dean pull Castiel from the shadows? Castiel signs on as his test subject and hopes for normalcy; the last thing he expects is to fall in love.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury & Castiel, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 111
Kudos: 300
Collections: DCBB 2019, ProfoundBond Fic Recs, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. I Like Pie

**Author's Note:**

> Like many fairy tales, this one has many versions. I grew up with Charles Perrault's version, _[Diamonds and Toads](https://www.pitt.edu/~dash/perrault05.html)_. _Honey Pies_ is a retelling of this fairy tale, although you don't need to be familiar with it to enjoy it. 
> 
> I want to thank my artist, [Far_To_The_North](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Far_To_The_North/pseuds/Far_To_The_North), for her beautiful art! It was lovely to work with her on this project. I am just thrilled that you can all enjoy these gorgeous pieces! The boys are SO SOFT and beautifully drawn. And the PIE and BEE DIVIDERS AAAAAH I love them. Check out the [art masterpost on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21394852) and send some love!
> 
> Huge thanks to [Zaphodsgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaphodsgirl) and [SconesandTextingandMurder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconesandtextingandmurder) for being the most entertaining, insightful beta readers. Thank you for helping to improve this story and for all your encouragement along the way. Thank you ESPECIALLY for all the dirty jokes. It's like the song says, a spoonful of dick jokes makes the, uh, beta commentary go down?
> 
> This challenge wouldn't be nearly as fun without the expert guidance of moderators, A_Diamond and Museaway. Thank you for all the work you put into the DCBB!
> 
> Enjoy, friends <3

From its highest rooftops, Maltese City was an uneven, gray-green checkerboard in the springtime. Old trees lined residential streets, spreading wide over the pavement and buckling sidewalks so that the inner rings of the city resembled an above-ground rabbit warren of gently paved hillocks fronting homes and apartments. Rooftop gardens scraped the sky - both planned and escaped, landscaping the birds-eye-view with pale green and brown, and vibrant purple and yellow sand flowers. The residents of Maltese had more or less given up trying to control its growth, putting efforts towards maintenance instead. City-employed gardeners dotted the occasional rooftop in the cooler morning hours, easily visible in their bright red uniforms and appearing like tracer dye moving through a vast organism.

Maltese was a magical city, after all, even if few dared to acknowledge it. By virtue of its charm, or a spell, or perhaps a collective will to both suffer magic and deny its existence at the same time, Maltese was a refuge from the wider world for the magically inclined.

A refuge, or a prison, caged in green.

_Definitely a prison_, Castiel thought, and tossed a shredded ball of little bluestem to plummet to the pavement below. He squinted at the rising sun. It was astonishing how malevolent a clear sky could be when he was in no mood to enjoy it.

Castiel was jarred from his meditative gloom by the rooftop door banging open behind him. Swiveling from his view of the city, he saw a slim redhead pushing through the door. _Charlie. Thank god._ Raising his arm high, he waved her over before turning back to the cityscape, letting her crunching footsteps close the distance between them.

His friend settled next to him with a gusty sigh. She stretched her legs out, letting her feet dangle next to his over the side of the building.

“It’s _so _early. There’d better be pie,” Charlie’s greeting brought a fleeting smile to Castiel’s face. He tapped the reused take-out tin between them with a sharp rat-a-tat. “Ah. You may live.” Charlie slumped like a collapsing balloon, and snatched the tin up into her lap. Carefully, she pried off the cracked plastic lid and pinned it under her knee so it wouldn’t blow away in the occasional gust scraping through Maltese. With the lid off, the once faint smell of chocolate, fig, and cinnamon swelled into full bloom. Charlie inhaled deeply, then plunked a finger deep into the center of the little palm-sized pie, pulling up a fingerful of fig-flecked chocolate custard. She licked the filling from her finger and moaned around it. “_Oh_. Oh yeah. This is a good one. You serving this today?”

Castiel dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

“Which one is it from?” Charlie asked, lifting the cinnamon-cracker crust to her lips and taking a healthy bite from the pie. Crumbs spilled down her lemon yellow sweatshirt, golden glitter in the rosy sunrise.

He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, edges worn from repeated folding. Castiel smoothed the paper open and handed her the poem. She read the first stanza aloud.

> _“Te recuerdo como eras en el último otoño._
> 
> _Eras la boina gris y el corazón en calma.”_

Charlie took another great, decidedly unromantic bite of pie. “Nice,” she declared around the mouthful. “More Neruda. Still stuck on his love poems?”

Castiel lifted one shoulder and rolled his eyes, perfectly aware of Charlie’s hidden question. _You going to get out there, meet a man? _Every few months Charlie lobbed that advice at him, apparently ever hopeful that it might stick. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the support, on some level, but there was a world of difference between enjoying the idea of romance and actual, messy relationships. _Fire away,_ he thought, steeling himself for the ribbing that was sure to come.

Charlie rapped her knuckles playfully against his shoulder. “You old sap,” she said affectionately instead, and ate the rest of her pie in companionable silence as the sun rose between the taller buildings of Midtown. When she finished, she set the pie plate on the worn cement, wedged it between their bodies, and leveled a serious look at him. “So. Why’d you call me up here at the ass crack of dawn? Did you find out something new about the chick who cursed you?”

Castiel shook his head with a grimace, then pulled out his tablet. Rapidly, he looped his fingers on the keyboard, typing into his dictation app. A smooth, male voice emerged from its speakers. “I finally went to the Surly Cow last night. That bar you told me about?”

Charlie nodded. “That biker bar with all the ‘book clubs.’ Yeah. Total front for covens. So did you guys end up discussing _Like Water for Chocolate _or…””

With a grimace, Castiel wrote, “I barely made it past the door. I overheard someone talking about the ‘most powerful witch.’ I asked them about her.”

“Good! Finally.” Charlie nodded in satisfaction. “Were we right? Did they know her?” Her gaze flicked across his creased brow and the lines of tension draw around his mouth. The merriment faded from her eyes. Castiel looked away, back down at his tablet. He might not be able to speak his mind, but Charlie always was able to read volumes in his expressions. “Shit. What happened?”

“I almost got…” His thumbs hesitated over the keys, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Charlie’s eyes grew wider, a storm cloud of concern swelling across her features. _Killed _sounded incredibly dramatic and in the rational light of day, perhaps incorrect. He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll find any more leads at the Surly Cow. The regulars weren’t friendly.”

“Weren’t friendly as in?”

Castiel laid one palm against his abdomen and mimed a swift punch. He instantly regretted the motion, wincing as the purpling bruise twinged over his ribs.

“Oh. Cas.” Gently, Charlie wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Castiel let himself be drawn into her embrace, resting his cheek against her sun-warmed hair. “I should’ve gone with you. Strength in numbers? Though how they got past you… You’re fast, Cas. I’ve seen you fight.”

Castiel sighed audibly and his lips tasted abruptly like turned lemon. He shook his head before shifting upright again to write, “A couple rounds in the ring at the gym isn’t the same as real life. Besides, this isn’t your problem. I don’t want you involved.”

“Too damn bad,” Charlie spat. “You shouldn’t be heading to those places alone. Especially not with your…”

“Curse,” Castiel suggested with a sharp jab at the glass screen.

“Difference,” Charlie amended.

“I think,” Castiel wrote, the digital voice betraying none of the fear or longing that bound his chest in iron, “I should give up. I can’t…” He shook his head. “I don’t think she wants to be found.”

“Cas, you can’t just give up. We’re close! I know we are.”

“I shouldn’t have involved you,” Castiel said over her protests. “And I’m afraid…” He hesitated, searching for words, but there was too much to list. They’d hit him twice, hard, before chucking him out the door. But that had just been punctuation on their threat of dropping a load of dark magic down on his head if he tried to pursue the witch any further, much less resist their “escort” outside. He quelled a shiver that tried to rattle its way out, thinking about Charlie - pure-sunshine and innocent in all of this - in the grips of the people back at that bar. “It’s done,” he wrote. Printed in black and white on his screen, the words seemed final. “I’m done. Please.”

He turned to her, trying to convey his desperation and worry over his fate - over hers - through his expression. Her gaze flicked over him, searching for a hint of uncertainty, so Castiel focused on keeping his mouth steady and his eyes level before glancing down at his tablet to type one more time. “Please.” He clasped his hands for emphasis, knuckles white with tension.

Finally, Charlie deflated, wrapping her free hand around his. “You know I had your back the moment I learned your secret, okay? If you really want to stop looking for the witch who cursed you then I’ll…I’ll respect your wishes.” She sounded like the words had to be torn from her chest and Castiel sandwiched her hand in his own and squeezed. She tightened her other arm around him in response, pulling him close and whispering an apology in his ear.

Castiel closed his eyes and sighed into her shoulder, quietly this time, and there was no flavor in his silent exhale. Just the lavender scent of Charlie, his oldest friend in the city. Hell, maybe she was his _only_ friend. He was still astonished by their friendship.

A few years ago, Charlie had taken a temporary security consulting gig at the commissary where he kept his food truck. The commissary, affectionately nicknamed the Comm by its clients, had needed new security cameras installed after the old system had failed to catch a family of raccoons from entering nightly and raiding supplies stored in lower cabinets.

Before Charlie joined the Comm staff, Castiel had prepared most of the food for his truck in the very early hours of the morning, when the commissary kitchens were otherwise abandoned. He would create half his food traditionally, and the other half magically. His curse was potent and highly specific. When he spoke out loud, pies fell from his lips out of nowhere, out of air. He’d been creating pies that way for so long by then that he’d gotten careless.

Charlie had caught Castiel on tape immediately. “I know magic when I see it,” Charlie had told a panicked Castiel the next day, in a private storage closet off the back hallway. “How did you do it?” When Castiel only gaped at her, his mind a static wash of fear, she’d shown him the footage as it replayed on her tablet. The new cameras recorded sound as well as visuals, and the correlation couldn’t be explained away now that the evidence was available in such high definition.

Another person might have dutifully reported his illegal magic use to the Comm owners and Castiel would have received a polite but firm retraction of his contract, or even a visit from law enforcement. Magic might be somewhat tolerated in the city, but using magic was still prosecuted frequently enough to incentivize hiding. Instead, Charlie had been full of eager curiosity and a surprising amount of gentle concern. Castiel must have looked ill, because the next thing he knew she was helping him sit on a stack of boxes and assuring him fervently that she would never tell his secrets. Instead, she offered to help him hide his magic.

Months later, when Castiel finally trusted her enough to tell her about the childhood curse behind his magic pies, she had even offered to help him find the witch who had done it. Finding the witch was the main reason he’d settled in Maltese instead of hiding away in some quiet, dull suburb on the other side of the country. Castiel had accepted her help with the same sense of constant surprise with which he embraced her friendship. With her help, he’d planned to find the witch, break his curse, and he could live a normal life at last.

But that dream was dead now.

Castiel clung to Charlie and squeezed his eyes shut. He was tired of the search, tired of the danger posed every time he tested Maltese’s turbulent magical waters in his hunt for the witch.

When Charlie finally pulled away, Castiel’s throat burned with tension and unshed tears of frustration. But he swallowed them down, smiled at her, and supposed he was grateful that he couldn’t speak so she wouldn’t hear what would surely be a quaver.

“So,” he wrote at last, “I guess our evening plans are cancelled?”

“Not cancelled. Just…pizza and movies like normal people. Right? No more magical espionage.” Charlie wrinkled her brow skeptically. “And you’re sure you’re fine?” Castiel nodded with more certainty than he felt. “Just like that, you’re okay with all of it?”

Castiel grimaced. _Of course I’m not okay. “_Accepting,” he typed instead, and she nodded at last, reluctantly.

“So long magical quest,” Charlie said at last with a rueful laugh. She deflated against him, half in support and half seeking it, and Castiel did the same.

** **

Castiel’s food truck, _Honey Pies_, was painted butter-yellow and gold inside and out. It made the interior feel as warm as sunshine, even when the thick metal awning was still locked into the truck body, and all the doors and windows were closed to prying eyes.

Castiel hid inside his truck; he sat on his little folding stool with gloved hands held in a cradling position four inches from the cleft of his chin. He spoke clearly in the quiet truck, his voice deep and sure. Neruda’s words rolled off his tongue and formed substance.

A miniature pie appeared in the air, inches from his lips and fully formed. Castiel caught it neatly in his hands. Sugar crackled across its gleaming brown, perfect crust and the bottom of it was warm, as though fresh from the oven and just slightly cooled. Raspberry and chocolate with the barest hint of lemon thyme steamed from its vents, the thick scent mixing with the other cooling pies set on racks positioned along the wall. Castiel smiled in satisfaction and placed the pie on the wire shelf. Eleven more of these would make an even two dozen and then he could open up the truck and prepare for customers.

He yawned, cleared his throat, and took a quick sip of water so the words would come out clear and perfect. When the words were right and his mind centered, pies fell like careful-cut crystals from his lips. If his attention or mood wavered, the pies reflected that as well. Castiel took a slow breath then spoke deliberately. Another pie appeared and he caught it with the unerring accuracy of constant practice.

Just as the last, this pie was perfect. It would remain in this unblemished just-ready-to-eat state for hours yet before it would start to fall prey to the forces of the natural world, like heat, cold, or rot. In his darker times, Castiel found this lasting perfection deeply disheartening. He loved to bake; loved to lose himself in fine measurements, careful cuts, and intricate new flavor combinations. But even his most perfect hand-made pie never seemed to exceed the ones magicked from his lips.

But despair never stopped him from trying.

The refrigerated storage on the truck was nearly full of Castiel’s hand-baked pies in preparation for today’s event. The display window already held four kinds of sweet or savory miniature pie, as well as five types of cookies in a variety of flavors and decor. After his talk with Charlie on the Comm’s rooftop, he’d gone back downstairs to do the day’s baking in the shared kitchen. He’d made far more than was necessary for the evening, channeling his agony into wells of flour and spice.

Castiel carefully spoke the last pie into existence, tongue flicking out to lick the remnant flavor from his lower lip as he set the small pie to cool with the others. The truck was a raucous bouquet of sweet spice and dough, exacerbated by the closed space. Castiel inhaled deeply then stood, stripping off his plastic gloves. He rolled his shoulders a little, trying to ease the tension from them. The movement stretched his aching side and Castiel rummaged under the counter before shaking ibuprofen from a bottle he kept there, and swallowing them down.

The FutureTech party would start in a half hour. It was time to open up the truck.

He’d parked Honey Pies on the edge of the corporation’s rolling green lawn, neatly set between the spray-painted lot marks designated for the row of food carts contracted for the company’s annual picnic. Emerging from the side door, he saw that the grounds were now bustling with last minute preparations. An army of green t-shirt clad workers set up chairs and tables while the other carts and an adjacent flotilla of barbecues bustled, preparing for the party attendees’ imminent arrival.

Castiel walked around the side of his truck, mindlessly running his fingers along the gleaming honeycomb patterned side. She was an old truck, surviving at least two prior businesses and Castiel’s own cross country flight, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. He’d kept her tidy and hammered out her dents himself, buffed away the rust, and gotten professionals to do whatever he couldn’t. _A cheerful outside begets a cheerful inside._ Castiel frowned, and pushed away his mother’s words forcefully.

Right.

He unlocked the awning and lifted it high, the pneumatic pistons gasping as he drew it open and propped it up. Inside, his display case held an array of his most attractive products, cookies neatly arranged and pies gracing little plinths behind the plexiglass.

“Yo, Cas!” A brunette with a solar grin poked her head through her own truck window. Above her, an ice cream cone slowly whirled on a drunken axis. “Thought you’d never come out of there.”

Castiel grinned and waved to Alicia Banes then shrugged with a sheepish expression, as though he’d missed the passage of time, or didn’t have time to explain. Alicia waved away his mimed dismay with her own dismissive gesture. She balanced her elbows on her counter and continued, “You know what the worst thing about these paid events is? No tips. Oh, you got your standard gratuity-added clause but still.” She rubbed two fingers together. “Not the same, you know?”

Castiel groaned sympathetically, tasting cardamom. He raised himself onto his toes and reached over his own counter, fishing a paper sheet from the box near the register. He snagged a bright orange flower cookie, his signature sugar bee perched on a petal, and brought it over to Alicia. He presented it like a trophy.

Alicia grinned, plucked off the bee, and tossed it into her mouth. “Tip accepted,” she said, blowing him a kiss. Castiel flashed a two-fingered salute to her, proper as a Boy Scout, and then turned to survey the grounds.

Though it was still a little early, guests were beginning to filter onto the property, clad in jeans and button-down shirts, families in tow. He swiveled, flashed a thumbs up to Alicia for good luck, and returned to his truck. It would likely be a busy afternoon for both of them.

Castiel had earned a reputation in this city over the last couple of years, grateful to discover that his baking seemed to do the talking for him. Even with private events, like this one, there were usually at least one or two customers who had visited his food truck at least once before. Repeat customers often did Castiel’s proselytizing work for him, and as the attendance at today’s function swelled, Castiel found his truck’s patronage grew in proportion.

The afternoon blurred towards evening, a time sink of interaction and lull repeating as guests arrived, ate, then ate again. He was leaning over his counter, conversing with one of his regulars from the east side farmer’s market, when a beautiful man approached with a loping gait, fingers hooked casually in his belt loops and tugging enticingly at his waistband to reveal a thin sliver of skin between his jeans and the rucked-up hem of his shirt. The setting sun limned him in rose-gold and he wore a smile that ought to be illegal.

Castiel’s fingers faltered on his screen. Heat stole through him as he realized he was staring and he wrenched his gaze away and finished writing, looking at Kevin - and only Kevin - as the voice on his tablet recommended the lemon-mint medley, a new pie Castiel had perfected recently.

“I’ll try that, then,” Kevin said with a wry sideways smile, turning to greet the newcomer. “Dean Winchester! I figured you’d be camped here all day! This guy’s obsessed with pie,” he explained and Castiel tried to nod coolly while a traitorous part of him imagined an afternoon with this man settled in front of his truck all day.

The new customer, Dean, bent to examine the display of pies behind Castiel’s display case with all the gravitas of a building inspector. Castiel considered him for a breathless moment before retreating into the truck to pull Kevin’s request from the refrigerator. He settled it into a disposable pie plate and slid the pie across the counter.

It made Castiel smile, watching Kevin take in the new pie with a growing gleam of appreciation. He’d been rather proud of how they had turned out - the perfect mix of bright lemon yellow with vibrant green mint jelly swirls turning each pie into a small psychedelic whirlpool. It was so satisfying to create something beautiful and well-constructed, and to watch his customers drink in the small details. In the center of the whirlpool, he’d placed one of his sugar bees like a trapped fly.

“You should teach cooking classes, Cas,” Kevin said, peeling back the paper bowl to take a bite out of the side of the pie. “I’ll do the talking for you. You can pay me in pies.”

Castiel laughed and shook his head forcefully. The prospect of a public class was an alarming one and he let the proposal fade the same way he did with suggestions that he open his own restaurant, or author a cookbook. He ignored the suggestion entirely and directed his attention to whatever distraction presented itself. In this case, he looked meaningfully at Dean, hoping to catch his eye and deflect Kevin’s line of conversation.

Castiel’s querying look was lost on the man, who only seemed to have eyes for the display of pies. Fortunately, Kevin seemed to take the hint because he followed Castiel’s gaze and snorted. “You’re not defusing a bomb, man. Pick something so I can kick your ass in horseshoes.”

“Any day, Kevin. Any time,” the man said with overblown gusto, his voice smooth as polished wood. He straightened and grinned at Castiel again, blindingly brilliant and playful. “I love pie,” he told Castiel more soberly. “So this is a big decision for me.”

_Oh_, Castiel thought as he struggled to pull himself out of the deep well of Dean’s green eyes. _This one’s trouble_. He raised a brow in cool challenge and his finger looped a message with little thought, “You can have more than one. Though you’ve missed out on trying four different varieties, getting here so late.”

Dean’s eyes flew wide and he skimmed Castiel in a slow once over. “Oh!” he said, eyes fixed on Castiel’s tablet for a moment. He seemed to forget himself for a moment, mouth hanging open mid-sentence. Then he drew in a quick breath and made a terrible facsimile of a pout. “I had my nephew’s birthday party today! What kind of uncle do you take me for?”

“A very indecisive one,” Castiel remonstrated. He gestured to the green lawn at large, and the vast expanse of space between his truck and the rest of the party. “You’re keeping my many customers waiting.”

Dean looked around at Kevin, and only Kevin and then grimaced theatrically. “How rude of me. If I’d known there was pie I would’ve gotten away sooner.” He gestured at the perfect rosy sky ushering in the evening like he was waving away a gnat. “These all hand made?” he asked.

Castiel hesitated, then wrote in quick, swooping spirals, “I make them all myself.” He punctuated the statement with a nod. It was close enough to the truth.

Again, Dean’s gaze zeroed in on Castiel during their brief conversation and Castiel realized that he was watching his hand move over the keypad on his tablet. Apparently his pies were far less captivating than his assistive device. Castiel very carefully refrained from balling his hands into fists and hiding them behind the counter, forcing his fingers to appear relaxed. His palms began to sweat from the scrutiny.

Castiel was used to this moment, the sudden understanding when a customer realized he used a computer to speak. Sometimes he was met with curiosity, sometimes with discomfort. But he’d rarely been met with an almost clinically cutting stare, like the man was trying to dismantle a puzzle with nothing more than a look. He felt his face settle into stone. Emotional retreat was second nature to him, after all. Born and bred.

Dean shook his head, seemingly oblivious to Castiel’s discomfort. His expression turned on a dime into something strangely like childish delight. “Do you speak ASL?” he asked, hands swiftly moving with his words. “Because I’d love someone else to practice with.”

Castiel blinked at him, then blinked again at the man’s perfectly raised brow. Dean seemed to know that he'd surprised Castiel and this apparently pleased him. That proud look of achievement was about to be dashed, however. Castiel knew very little ASL; what he did know was gleaned from the schools and hospitals his parents had sent him to after he had been cursed. But he had only learned enough to dangle on the edge of his classmates’ conversations.

Screwing up his face, Castiel shook his head and tapped his throat, then flew his fingers outward. Anna used to call that move his “Little Mermaid”, which galled him. But that, paired with a regretful head shake, was usually enough to explain himself. _I can’t speak, _he thought sourly._ A witch cursed me. Can’t you tell? Please don’t have follow up questions. _He tapped out, “Sorry. I don’t speak asl.” The computer’s voice pronounced it _ah-sill._

“Oh,” Dean said, staring again with those intense, curious eyes. He looked abashed now. “I’ve been taking night classes and the more people I have to talk to the easier it seems and…”

“I didn’t know you knew sign language.” Both of them turned to Kevin who, Castiel was ashamed to realize, he had completely forgotten about. Kevin’s glance between them seemed to indicate that he was perfectly aware of this, but his smile was easy as he asked, “Are you learning it for work?”

“Nah. It’s a bonus for work but...” Dean’s ears definitely appeared a little rosy at the attention. Castiel felt the stone within him melt as the man jammed his hands back into his pockets like a bit of denim was the only force in the universe that might contain them properly. “My brother and his wife speak it so, you know.” His mouth slid into a lopsided smile. “Family dinners are a lot more fun when you know what everyone’s saying.” He elbowed Kevin in a conspiratorial manner. “Now Sam can’t talk about me in front of my face. Mostly. And I can talk to Eileen behind his back, like, literally. Which is pretty friggin’ handy.” He looked back at Castiel with a steadier gaze, apparently less rattled now. “Sorry, I hope this isn’t too personal but… You can hear?” Castiel nodded. “But don’t speak?”

Castiel nodded and tapped his tablet meaningfully. Of course he could _speak_. Just...not out loud, without creating a pile of involuntary pies.

“Cool. That’s cool. Sorry,” Dean grimaced apologetically but the assessing gleam had returned to his eye. Castiel felt like an insect pinned to a board by it and discomfort shivered across the surface of his skin. Years of practice at introspection made him chase after the feeling and… Yes. That was it. He was being _seen_. And he didn’t like it. Except that he sort of did. There was something intense about the other man’s gaze that seemed to mark Castiel as special. As fascinating even. As they stared at each other, the other man swallowed hard and pushed the tip of his tongue out to wet his lips.

_God_.

Castiel plastered on a smile. Too much time had passed in silence. “Can I interest you in anything?” he wrote pointedly. _Like me? _a traitorous part of him wanted to ask. God, he’d been alone too long. His mouth twisted wryly and that simple movement seemed to be enough to spur Dean towards a decision.

“Oh! Yeah.” Dean bent toward the pies once more like he’d never given Castiel the third degree. “Strawberry pecan cream,” he said finally. “They all look awesome, though.” The last statement was delivered in a register of polite chit-chat. As Castiel watched him, a curtain of casual ease drew over Dean’s face.

Castiel smoothly turned, berating himself for the excitement that flared because Dean ordered one of his hand-made pies, rather than a magical variety. He pulled one out, settled it into a little paper pie plate, and handed it to him across the counter. He expected Dean to leave then, but instead he stood there under Kevin’s amused stare and inhaled the fragrance of the pie.

Dean moaned and - heaven help him - Castiel was _not _prepared for this. “Wow,” he said after a deep exhale. “Wow.” He raised the pie in one hand and peeled back the paper plate, rotating it in his hand like a junior restaurant critic vying for a byline.

Castiel instinctively retreated a step into the shelter of his truck while his traitorous mind committed every detail of Dean’s tongue swiping his lower lip to memory.

Dean took a bite of his pie.

Instantly he groaned, chewing slowly as crust crumbled onto his chin. He swiped the crumbs away and saluted Castiel with the pie. “Amazing,” he decreed. “So friggin’ good.”

“Thank you?” Castiel said, although the tablet delivered the line without any unusual inflection since he had failed to add any punctuation.

“Seriously, dude. You’re a genius.” Castiel shrugged and Dean tipped a terribly rakish smile in his direction. His cheek was full of pie, lending him the ridiculous air of a flirtatious chipmunk. “Your...girlfriend? Boyfriend? Has gotta be the luckiest…”

“Oh, I haven’t had a boyfriend in-- I’m not dating anyone.” Flustered, Castiel mustered up the facsimile of casual confidence and winked heavily. “If I accepted every proposal I ever got over my pies…” Castiel pretended to calculate an excessive number on his fingers.

“You saying I got competition?”

A smug smile seemed like the perfect response to that, and Dean laughed and held up his hand. “Alright. I see I’m gonna have to up my game.” He winked at Castiel in a move that seemed as easy and unplanned as breathing, before turning to Kevin. “You ready for me to kick your ass in horseshoes, Tran?”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “I’m ready for you to beg for mercy, yes.” He tossed a wave in Castiel’s direction. “See ya.”

Dean waved as well, allowing Kevin to route him away from Castiel’s cart towards the lawn games set out on the other side of the green.

Castiel waved his hand belatedly, watching the two men walk away. He focused on his breathing, finding his center in the same way he did when it came time to make pies. _Well, that happened._ He felt light, giddy even, as he replayed Dean’s carefree wink and casual jests. That Dean Winchester...he was an odd one to pin down. He wanted to sit him down and question him, drink the quirks of his mouth and his pooling gaze.

After a moment, Castiel shook himself, stepping back into the shadowed depths of the truck again. It was fine to feel these things, to let attraction swamp his senses for a few dumb moments. Because that’s all they were. Moments.

He let the air out of his lungs slowly, and settled himself to work the rest of the evening in relative peace, hidden behind his pies and his customer service smile.

** **

By the end of the night, Castiel still had no idea exactly what FutureTech did, but he could say with certainty that their employees could party like they had dedicated their lives to the art of group fun. Honey Pies had been contracted until ten at night and Castiel had expected it to be bookended by dead lulls as guests filtered in or out. Instead, business was steady enough that Castiel considered pressing himself into a hidden corner of his truck to speak more pies into existence, rather than admit that he’d run out of too many varieties. The cold fear of discovery was enough to stop him; and the last time he’d tried to speak pies on the fly with a worried state of mind, the crusts had come out wobbly, the worst of them burnt.

The families had departed hours ago, but a cluster of partygoers coalesced in the middle of the green like a pulsing heart, cells breaking away to get food or to visit the open bar before returning to the crush.

Castiel should not have expected it, but a solid sense of inevitability settled over him when he watched Dean approach his truck again, a half hour before the official end of the food carts’ contracted time. Dean stalked across the lawn with greater purpose this time, an arrow shot straight to Castiel’s truck.

Castiel was ready this time too, armed with a professional smile and a typed greeting ready to go. “Welcome back,” he said and the man grinned.

“Couldn’t resist,” Dean announced with a flick of a glance that seemed to travel across Castiel and Castiel only.

What could he say to that? Castiel swallowed against the nerves trying to bubble up in his throat. He waited, silence stretching between them while Dean glanced between him and his pie display, like he was trying to find a conversational opening. Finally, Castiel broke and tapped a quick prompt into his tablet. “What can I interest you in now?”

“I would like…” Dean said slowly. “Pie.”

Castiel laughed at the simple statement, so haltingly delivered. It was awfully endearing. The sound filled his mouth with strawberry.

“That seemed obvious,” Castiel typed and Dean rolled his eyes upward, apparently inviting ridicule. Castiel resisted the temptation to tease him. “What are you in the mood for?”

Dean flicked his gaze upwards at that and met Castiel’s eye, intent yet unreadable. “They all look good,” he said at last. He shoved his hands in his pockets again, now clearly with discomfort. “Listen. I’m, uh, sorry about earlier. I realized I was grilling you about talking. That was crappy.”

Castiel’s mouth slid into an O of surprise. He couldn’t say it was okay. It _had_ been discomfiting. And yet he'd contributed his fair share of awkwardness to the conversation. He looked at his tablet and then glanced up again to meet Dean’s gaze. What could he say? What should he say? He didn’t know, so instead he flapped a hand at Dean like he was swatting a fly. _It’s fine,_ the gesture seemed to say. He followed it with a genuine, albeit small smile. He tapped the plexiglass display and raised his brow again.

“Yeah!” Dean said with a little shake, wrenching his gaze from Castiel to the pies. “Let’s see. Can I get a couple? You got a limit?”

Bemused, Castiel shook his head. _A limit? How many pies can this man eat? _“All for yourself?” he typed, and Dean laughed and scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“Not exactly? But mostly, yeah.” He raised a finger. “Two peach pies. One would be for me. The other’s to bribe my buddy Benny — he’s the DJ.” Dean pointed to a burly man frowning seriously at an equipment-laden table on the edge of the green. “Gotta get him to play something cooler than whatever party mix he promised corporate. And your tropical medley’s been on my mind for the last hour.” He looked up at Castiel through his eyelashes.

_He’s flirting. _Excitement, chased by the cold chill of fear flooded Castiel. His pounding heart drummed out a warning and Castiel stiffened in response, nodding and disappearing further into his truck than necessary to fetch the three pies.

Apparently unaware of the mood shift, Dean cheerily asked, “So a pie truck’s awesome. You sell these anywhere else? Got a restaurant?”

Castiel shook his head, sliding the three pies carefully into a line on the counter before typing quickly, “My schedule changes.” He pointed at the sheaf of business cards he kept in a plastic display by the napkin dispenser.

Dean plucked up a card and scanned it before pocketing it. “Cool,” he said, carefully gathering the pies into his hands. “Thanks. Nice meeting you. And, uh, have a good one,” he said, awkwardly hoisting the pies in Castiel’s direction before turning and walking back towards the party.

If Castiel spent a little too long watching his swaying departure, lost in a maze of regret and relief, nobody else needed to know.

That night Castiel dropped into bed, exhausted by his long day and aching from both his bruises and the hours spent on his feet. He had little energy to spare to hold onto the memory of the bright-eyed man at the party, but he still pictured Dean for a moment as his eyes slid shut. He had a blurry memory of green eyes and beautifully cut cheekbones, a sunny smile blinding when directed at him, gorgeous legs, hips, everything. Castiel pictured him, fuzzy as the memory was already, then he dropped it like a throwaway flier into a wastebin and slid into the blank sleep of the truly exhausted.


	2. Experiments

Charlie spat a cherry pit over the edge of the building into the fallow lot next door. “You think I can get a cherry tree to grow over there?”

Castiel peered into the weed-thick lot and nodded, his mouth drawn up in teasing agreement.

“Hey, a girl can dream. Fresh cherries every year and all mine? Ours, I guess.” She settled back on her elbows again and rummaged in the bag of cherries sitting open between them. It was late and the moon had risen over the tops of the buildings, bathing the city in silver and shadow.

Pulling his tablet from the flap of blanket covering it, Castiel wrote slowly, “So you’re not planning on moving?”

Charlie froze, then rolled her shoulders towards him, her face lined with chagrin. “Alicia told you? I swear the Comm is just one big nest of gossip.”

Castiel felt his expression fall. _So it’s true. _Charlie would leave Maltese, leave _him_.

She gripped his wrist. “No, I’m not moving. Not thinking seriously about it anyway. I...just…I used to move every year, you know? New place, new challenges. Sometimes I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome here. Like I’ve gotta find something new. You know I used to mark time by where I lived? I’ve been here so long, I think I’m forgetting to pay attention. I didn’t even realize it’d been three years until…” Charlie sighed.

Castiel listened to her soberly, fearfully, and tried to prevent any of his sorrow from showing on his face. She didn’t need the burden of his feelings.

“Well, anyway. There’s some personal stuff that I’ve gotta--” She cleared her throat and looked away. “Gotta deal with.”

“Anything I can help with?” Castiel asked hopefully, his tablet glowing like a moon between them. Charlie had done so much for him over the past couple of years, protecting his secrets and offering her friendship without reservation. He would do anything for her.

Charlie wrinkled her nose ruefully. “I don’t think so. And I don’t want to-- I’m not ready to talk about it,” she said, forestalling him from pressing her further. “The idea of moving was an off hand comment to Alicia but…” She looked out over the city. “I’m not gonna leave. I like it here. Besides, who else is gonna look after you?”

Castiel laughed and anise flooded his nostrils. “Are you my guardian angel then?” he wrote.

“Something like that.” Charlie looked smug before she met his gaze with an earnest look. “Cas, I’m not going anywhere,” she promised.

“Glad to hear it,” Castiel wrote, wishing the tablet’s voice was anywhere near as grateful as he felt.

She poked him in the side, playfully. It seemed to signal a shift in subject and Castiel went along with it willingly. “You know,” Charlie said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what we talked about last week. You giving up on finding the witch. And I think it’s a good idea. In fact, I think it’s the best idea. It’ll be so good for you to move on with your life and just...start living it.” Charlie sounded wistful, and Castiel was hit with the sudden realization that she was wishing the same thing for herself. He ached, knowing that she wasn’t ready to confide in him, and he resolved to be there for her in whatever way he could.

Castiel picked at the rubber edge of the tablet cover, trying to think of something to say. “I should tell you about this cute guy I met at the FutureTech gig,” he finally wrote. Thinking about Dean filled him with delightful, if useless fizz - the perfect remedy to distract them both from their morose moods.

Charlie dropped her chin theatrically to her hand. “Spill everything,” she insisted. They passed the time amicably after that, spitting cherry pits and plotting ridiculous scenarios to kick-start Castiel’s love life.

** **

Attraction often felt like a rainstorm, all-encompassing while he was in the moment but evaporating away as soon as the weather departed. It was fine to nurse a little crush, Castiel told himself. Nothing would come of it, and everybody needed a little fantasy from time to time. But reality would - and should - smooth over that electrostatic spike into placid weather once again.

Castiel embraced his routine as a comforting balm. While his weekends could be erratic, contracted frequently for festivals or events, he kept to a simple weekday schedule. Two mornings a week he offered breakfast fare: comforting magically-made quiches and handmade fruit tarts. The quiches were especially popular on Mondays; Castiel liked to imagine that the solid morning repast laid a good foundation for the rest of the day. He’d had more than one customer tell him that one of his quiches gave their Mondays balance. Three days a week he traveled between different lunch locations where several other carts parked and sold their wares. On lunch days, his desserts were the most popular - decadent treats purchased to tide people over their afternoon slump.

There was always a steady flow of regulars and newcomers at his cart, and he was usually busy enough that he could retreat into a meditative state of near-silence as he served people pie, ran cards, or made change. It was a steady life. Nobody stayed too long; they didn’t want their food to get too cold or too warm or too sticky or stale. Castiel himself was a passing novelty, a stamp in a stranger’s passport. _Bought food from a guy who talks with a computer. Stamp. _By Thursday, Castiel forgot all about his fleeting fanciful crush.

He was unprepared, therefore, to look up during a lull at the counter and see Dean Winchester approaching. Dean crossed the park towards the food trucks with his ridiculously enticing loping cowboy’s gait. When he noticed Castiel was watching him he grinned, and waved before tucking his fingers back into the front pocket of his jeans. His hands in his pockets only accentuated the way his fine t-shirt wrapped around his hips. Castiel gulped. His skin felt hot, his head light, and he wanted more than anything to sit down and regain his composure.

“Hey, Cas!” Dean said once he was within earshot. “What’s good today?”

Castiel stared for a moment longer, then nudged his tablet awake. He used the few seconds it took to type to compose himself and pretend his heart wasn’t throwing a circus parade. “Everything,” he said, looking up with faux-challenge in his gaze, determined not to waste this opportunity to flirt. _Flirt. _God, it’d been a long time since he’d let himself do that.

Dean’s eyes widened, his cool demeanor momentarily rattled. Castiel grinned to show he was teasing. “But you may like the pumpkin toffee? That’s been popular today.”

“Pumpkin spice this far from fall? Daring.” Dean tapped a nail on the glass. “And yes, that is absolutely up my alley. One of those, please.” He rocked back on his heels to look up at Castiel. “Business good?”

Castiel frowned as though in deep contemplation, then nodded. _Better now that you’re here,_ he wanted to say. But that sounded incredibly cliché. “Glad you found--” _Me,_ he almost wrote before changing it to, “My truck.”

“Now that I know there’s a pie truck, wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” Dean dug a billfold from his pocket, squinting at the sign which listed the flavors of the day and the prices. It wasn’t until he’d pulled out a ten dollar bill that Castiel abruptly remembered that he was a purveyor of pies and that he should consider actually trying to sell one to Dean instead of staring gormlessly at him.

The pumpkin pies were magically created, warmed by the same creative magic which brought them into being. Castiel scooped up one of them, its base settling like a warm stone into the serving plate. He slid it across the counter and hid his nerves by busying himself making change.

Dean slid a business card across the counter as Castiel rummaged in the till for coins. Castiel frowned, curious. He dropped Dean’s change into his waiting hand, earnestly attempting not to focus on the electric warmth he got just by brushing his fingertips along the mounds and valleys of Dean’s palm. He picked up the card with a questioning frown.

“So. Since last weekend I’ve been thinking about you. You don’t have to decide now,” Dean said as Castiel read the card. “But I got a question for you.”

Castiel stared at the business card in his hand. It read:

> _Dean Winchester_
> 
> _Engineer_
> 
> _FutureTech_
> 
> _Adler Products Lab_

In neat lettering, the following was written in fine black pen: _Speech study, Friday at 1 p.m._

Castiel swallowed hard, then looked at Dean. He cocked his head to one side and held up the card with a crease in his brow, his heart ricocheting for a very different reason now.

“It’s not today,” Dean said hurriedly, as though that had been Castiel’s chief question. “Next week. It’s a speech study. For a product my team is working on. It’s technically for anyone who uses speech assist tech, but we’re testing with people who can hear because there’s an emotional output component.” He tapped his temple, seemingly without thought. “For inflection? And it’s helpful to get feedback on accuracy from the person talking. Anyway, it’s really cool. You can talk without needing to speak a word.” He gestured towards the tablet on the counter. “Without typing, too.”

Castiel looked down at the card, realized he was crushing it between his fingers, and laid it onto the counter. Static filled his mind. _I don’t understand. _He typed this, haltingly, and Dean pulled a chagrined face. “So I, uh, can’t tell you much until you join the study. Nothing dangerous or too experimental. No implants,” he said, palms flung out. “You gotta sign a load of paperwork first. And you’d have to meet with Hannah - our speech specialist - before you could officially join the study. If you came on Friday, you’d learn all about it there.” Dean spread his fingers wide, a nervous sheen overtaking his earlier demeanor. “I just build the equipment. But, uh, Kevin thought you might be a good fit.” Dean indicated the crumpled card. “You make this appointment and I swear to you that you won’t be disappointed.”

Emotions crashed into Castiel like an unruly marching band. He was confused, certainly, but more galling than that, he found himself suddenly, bitterly disappointed. He’d watched Dean approach with all the swagger and beautiful grace of the weekend before and his stupid, ill-conceived hopes had risen like a rocket. Castiel had been interested in Dean, despite his misgivings about the prospect of any relationship. When he saw Dean approach, a stupid part of him assumed that he had come out to find Castiel. Or at least that Dean was enamored with his pies which, for Castiel, was nearly as good. But apparently his disability had triggered merely a professional interest instead.

Castiel grimaced and shook his head sharply. _Not for a second was he going to take part in some…some study. _They’d pick him apart, discover his secrets.

Dean’s face fell and he shrugged one shoulder towards his cheek before letting it drop dramatically. “Yeah. Okay. Cool.” Another customer approached the truck, hovering just beyond Dean to read the menu written on the board. Dean glanced at the new arrival and took a large step to one side. He lifted the pie in his hand like a tribute. “Well, thanks. See ya around?”

Castiel’s hand drifted up, fingers bending in farewell, and then Dean was just a retreating figure against the park green.

As Dean walked away, Castiel brushed the card to the side, under a stack of paper napkins. He pasted a smile on his face, his customer service mask feeling like a concrete weight for the rest of the day.

That night he lay in bed, weighed down by exhaustion. Sleep didn’t come. He kept thinking about the card Dean had given him. The words “speech study” had Castiel mentally shutting down during his conversation with Dean. But now, as his mind chased every detail of their brief talk, he focused on the nebulous product Dean had described. What could he possibly be offering, that might allow Castiel to speak without speaking, without typing?

He was used to his tablet, used to bringing it everywhere. It was robust and as compact as something that needed a fair amount of battery and processing power could be. But he’d be lying if there weren’t times he longed to just say what was on his mind - and say it the way he felt it. There were times when the battery failed him, or the words dropped from the canned voice in entirely the wrong way and made him wish he’d never tried to talk at all.

He thought about Charlie’s advice when he’d told her he was done pursuing the witch.

_Live my life_, he thought, restlessly punching at his pillow. _Move on. _Maybe...maybe it was time to do that. If he was done looking for the witch, done trying to undo his curse…

Maybe it was time to accept that he couldn’t speak without a pie falling from his lips. That would be his life forever. If Dean Winchester and his speech study gave him a plan B for an easier life that might be worth taking a risk and signing up for the study.

He lay in bed, staring at the shifting light from headlights skating across his ceiling, and thought about the future.

** **

Castiel showed up to the FutureTech study a little sweaty and entirely sleep deprived. The city that morning had moved like a disturbed animal, its residents disgruntled at his counter and the greenery shifting menacingly in the wind like restless fingers. It had been a hell of a successful morning, though, with a steady stream of customers buying up tarts and delicately golden quiches kept preternaturally warm and perfect by the lingering trace of magic. He’d extricated himself from the downtown market a little early and had just enough time to settle his truck at the Comm and borrow Charlie’s car before it was time to go out to the suburbs.

He emerged from Charlie’s yellow Gremlin with Dean’s card clutched in his hand. The card was worn from a week of nervous handling, his decision to try out Dean’s study vacillating from hour to hour. Castiel squinted into the sun and looked around.

FutureTech’s pristine parking lot was a sea change from downtown Maltese. It was surrounded by a bubble of extremely manicured grass, and the FutureTech buildings gleamed, silver pillars set throughout the rolling campus. It was almost like he’d arrived in a different world, or stepped the opposite way through a fairy circle and landed in concrete reality.

Could this mundane reality really free him from his curse? Would he really be able to speak _without_ speaking aloud? Anxiety churned in his gut, and his mouth burned sour with every audible exhalation. _This could fail. I could be discovered. _Castiel took a moment to pull in several deep breaths, wrapping his fear up like a root ball around itself, ready for transplant and renewal.

_I’m here to move forward with my life. I’m here to grow. _Castiel shoved the card into his pocket resolutely, and headed for the main door.

Inside, he was greeted by a three-story-tall lobby. A guard desk arched across the back wall like a reverse rainbow, blocking a hallway lined with closed elevator doors. Employees in casual attire settled on plush benches by the tall windows, computer screens tilted away from the light and heads bent in quiet conversation. Castiel brushed his fingers through his unruly hair and approached the desk.

The young man sitting there greeted him with an earnest grin and the slightest twinge of a southern accent. “Heya, welcome to FutureTech. How can I help you?” Castiel pulled out the card and slid it across, fingering his tablet with his other hand. What should he even say? _Dean sent me,_ sounded awfully informal. A badge pinned to the man’s neat button-down read, _Garth. _There was a sticker of a cartoon doberman next to it, edges worn gray. Maybe informal was how they did things here.

Dean’s business card seemed to suffice, however. “Say, you’re Castiel, right? Here for the study?” Castiel nodded. Garth pulled out a half sheet map. “Third floor,” he explained. “Take the elevator up. You’ll start in room 302.” He handed over the map and waved in a carefree manner. “Oh wait, I gotta see your ID first.”

Castiel fished out his wallet and handed over his driver’s license to the guard, who gave it a cursory glance before handing it back. “Have fun!” he said cheerfully, and waved Castiel through. As Castiel skirted past the desk to the bank of elevators the guard had indicated, he saw him settle back in his chair and snap the comic page of a newspaper upright in front of him.

Castiel shook his head, feeling slightly baffled by the casual environment of what surely must be a high security establishment. Before he’d left home, he thought that he had plenty of exposure to the high stakes business world. His family’s sprawling company seemed like the opposite of FutureTech; Novak Inc was a sea of dove-gray and white, overlaid by a culture of silence and subservience. It had never occurred to him that working for a large company could be fun or...happy. He’d arrived at FutureTech steeling himself against reminders of his past. Having his early expectations prove false was oddly soothing.

Room 302 gleamed with warm, rose-tinted wood set against creamy walls. It was like stepping into a strawberry ice cream cone. A receptionist greeted him with a brilliant smile and Castiel drew out his license and Dean’s card again, presenting them without comment. The man took them with a pert nod, entered something into his computer, and then handed them back across the desk with a tablet. He reached across the desk and tapped a button on the tablet, opening up what looked like a lengthy legal disclaimer. “Welcome. We’ve been expecting you,” he said warmly. Castiel started at that; he hadn’t told Dean that he’d changed his mind. Instead, he’d shown up half hoping to be turned away, like building security might make the decision for him instead. But the receptionist was already moving on just as the relaxed security guard had forged onward downstairs.

“You’ll have to read through these agreements, sign them with your finger, and then bring them back to me. Then I’ll get you settled at one of our kiosks--” the man gestured to a bank of computers with blue lit keyboards lined up on a tall counter. “We’ll have some questionnaires for you to fill out before you meet with Hannah, our speech therapist.”

Castiel sighed inwardly. Nerves made his skin feel tight. Well, he was in it now. He glanced at the tablet _Legalese. My favorite._ He settled onto an extraordinarily comfortable plush armchair and got to work.

By the time he’d gotten through the disclaimers and started in on the questionnaires at one of the kiosks, a sense of dim familiarity had settled over him. Many of the questions were similar to what he’d dealt with for half his life. Detailed prompts about his general health gave way to multiple choice questions about his particular speech disorder. Castiel lied heavily, as he’d been trained to do as a child. Since there was nothing physical causing his speech impairment, the easiest and most vague diagnosis over the years had been “emotional trauma.”

Castiel shook his head, fingers pausing over the keyboard. _Emotional trauma. _Well, it wasn’t entirely wrong. He certainly had plenty to draw from. He’d brought with him copies of the medical file from one of the more innocuous places, and the less said about the other institutions, the better. When he was young, they’d pinned his sudden “loss” of speech as trauma stemming from illness in his family. Around the time of his curse, his mother had been desperately ill. He’d been on his way to the hospital to visit her when his encounter with the witch changed his life forever. Though his mother had recovered, that day had left him scarred.

So. Emotional trauma.

He had just finished entering his finely strategized medical history and settled back in one of the waiting chairs, when a door on the far end of the reception area opened and a casually-dressed woman stepped through it. She smiled broadly, pleasant face gleaming when she saw him.

“Castiel?” When he nodded, she beckoned him forward. “Thank you for coming in today. We’re going to get you started.”

He returned her smile, albeit shakily. Castiel forced his fingers to relax at his sides, finding comfort in the way his hand brushed against his pocketed text-to-speech tablet. His walls were up, his mind...mostly centered. If they tried to trick him into talking, or hurt him, he was ready. He clenched his jaw like he was buckling armor, and followed her.

If any of his tension was apparent, the woman guiding him down a bright, sunny hallway didn’t mention it. “My name’s Hannah. I’m the speech therapist in our little group, so I’ll be evaluating you this afternoon. It’s so great that you could join our study,” she told him. “We’re doing some really exciting work with speech software. You haven’t participated in any of our other work, have you?” Castiel shook his head and her mouth slipped up into a wry half smile. “Winchester said you’d be new to all this, but he thought you’d be a good addition.”

Castiel’s traitorous heart sped at Dean’s name. He wondered if he would see him today. Was he working? Would he be part of this research group or did he just go around propositioning random strangers to test his equipment?

Hannah led him down the corridor to a room a little bigger than a closet. Mirrors took up one wall; Castiel suspected they were two way mirrors, having been in his share of research rooms. He kept his expression neutral, therefore, when she settled him at a desk set in front of an open laptop. A video was freeze-framed on the screen.

“Now that you’ve signed our non-disclosure agreement, we’d like you to watch this to get a feel for our process and product. And then we’ll start gathering your biometric data after that.” Castiel slipped into the chair and she paused beside him, face still open and friendly as though to say, _nothing to fear here._ “Can I get you anything? Water? Soda? Snacks?” Castiel shook his head, turning resolutely to the screen.

The video was flashy and corporate, but there were two things that made Castiel sit forward and hover at the edge of the seat.

Dean was in the video, relaxed and clearly in his element. In it, he explained the mechanism of a spidery device, showing how it wrapped around the skull of a young brunette like fine tentacles. Castiel drank in the technical details bemusedly as the video slipped between a dry explanation of the testing process, and colorful animations of firing neurons.

While Dean’s passion was spellbinding, and the rest of the team’s introduction engaging, the true standout came at the end of the orientation video. In it, the same brunette from before sat on a stool, the audio so attuned that it picked up the tiny pops and clicks her mouth made as she moved it. Noiselessly. An animated graph on one screen showed only tiny spikes as her mouth moved to form words. She only appeared to speak, like somebody might do for a lip-reader.

In the video, Hannah stood next to her and indicated the headset, which was wrapped around the woman’s skull and hooked up to a hefty computer. “We use this to monitor the electrical signals in your brain that order your vocal assembly to move and tap those signals to power the speech delivery. For example.” She tapped something on the computer and a jumping graph on the computer monitor went wild. Hannah signaled the brunette with her hand, and the woman mouthed the same thing as before. This time, a silky voice emanated from the computer. It appeared to match her words beautifully. She delivered the next line with what looked like a suppressed laugh, and the sentence emerged light and fluttering, like she really had been laughing. The brunette read simple lines from a tablet, perfectly and clearly. She sounded every bit as warm as rich as though she’d spoken the words aloud herself.

Castiel shivered. He _wanted_. His wavering resolve firmed. _This _is why he had come. Castiel thought he might do anything - promise anything - to get his hands on a device like that. The video ended on a close-up of Dean holding the spidery headset. “Lyrebird,” he said to the camera as orchestral music swelled. “It’s the voice of the future.”

When Hannah returned, she took in his shocked expression with a warm smile. “I can assure you, it’s every bit as cool as it looks.” She sat down in a slim office chair pushed up against the wall. “And you’re going to get to try it out today. But first we need to run through some tests.”

Hannah led him through exercises that he’d done so often, he could probably do them in his sleep. And yet he found himself sinking into testing with Hannah with a level of excitement that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Surely, their device couldn’t be as perfect as it appeared. And yet… And _yet_! Maybe it was.

Hannah’s work with him, it turned out, was to assess any current physical issues that might require a programmatic change in the code that controlled the device. They would also do detailed imaging work which would help them to create a personalized vocal profile. She led him from the little screening room and down another hallway.

“We’ll use analysis of your vocal resonator topography,” she told Castiel once she’d gotten him settled in a dimly lit examining room. Hannah handed an anatomical chart to him. Different areas of the mouth, throat, and nose were highlighted. “This will help our algorithm to arrive at a vocal pitch and range that should be uniquely you.” She smiled kindly and Castiel gulped and glanced over the sheet. “It’s a long day, I know. Before you leave today we’ll get you in a brief session with Dean Winchester, our engineer-- Well,” she interrupted herself with a slow smile. “You’ve already met him, haven’t you? He’ll test some fit issues with our prototype and establish a few baseline readings before the end of the day.” Castiel swallowed and nodded. “I think you’ll enjoy Project Lyrebird,” she told him softly.

Castiel nodded and shot her a tentative smile. He was ready. He hoped.

One extensive ultrasound and an actual MRI later, Castiel was led to a line of chairs set along the bigger hallway. He pressed back into one of the chairs, exhausted in mind and body. It had been an overwhelming afternoon. Too many hospitals and too many tests in his youth had taught him the costs of some of the equipment they’d used with him today. An MRI machine? How much money was this company throwing after this project if they had their own MRI?

Sitting in the hallway, he felt like he was waiting in the belly of some unnameable, enormous beast, waiting to see if it would swallow him whole.

The door next to him opened and an older man walked out, broadly smiling as he waved to whomever was inside the room. Moments later, Dean poked his head out of the door and grinned when he saw Castiel. “Cas,” he said in tones so pleased he might have run into him on a lakeside stroll. Dean grasped the doorframe and leaned into the hallway in a way that accentuated his broad shoulders. “Come on in.” He beckoned Castiel forward, then winked. “Your turn in the hot seat.”

Castiel pressed his palms into his knees to stand and followed Dean towards the room beyond. The motion of Dean’s body as he led the way into the room carried with it a gentle scent of cologne, like a breeze pulling the aroma of summer from an equatorial island. Castiel drank it in, felt like a foolish idiot, and inhaled it some more. Now this just wasn’t fair at all.

Inside, a hulking computer with three monitors took up most of the end of a long table. A collection of wires and cords wove from the setup, and Castiel recognized the metallic headgear that he had seen in the orientation video.

“So,” Dean said, gesturing to a pulled-out chair and circling around to sit closest to the keyboard. “I’m betting you’re feeling pretty overwhelmed. It’s a lot to take in, the first day.”

Castiel laughed and cast his eyes upward. That was an understatement.

Dean’s voice was quieter, more intimate away from the noisy party or crowded park. It was nice. Reassuring.

Dean ripped open an alcohol wipe, grabbed the headset, and began to swipe at the many delicate connection points. “Today we’re just doing some baseline readings. We want to make sure we’ve got a good connection set up for next time. And then we’ll have some of the custom voice work processed by next week.” He paused in his work and his mouth drew up at one corner, exposing the valley of a dimple there. “Glad you came.”

Castiel slid his tablet from his pocket. “I think I am too.” He screwed up his face in an uncertain fashion.

Dean laughed. “You will be. I promise.” He leaned an elbow on the table, for all appearances like someone relaxing next to a friend.

Castiel shifted in his chair, still sitting like he was lined up against a metal pole, and wished that for once in his life he could unravel and reciprocate.

“You made it through the worst of it this afternoon.” Dean tapped the headset. “This should take maybe...half an hour? Forty-five minutes? Then you can check back with reception in 302 to schedule more appointments.”

“Does it…” Castiel hesitated, fingers looping over the keyboard for a moment. “Does it hurt?”

“Nah. You shouldn’t feel anything but a little cool metal.” Dean held up the headset. It was a lightweight thing, spidery half spheres of metal joined with wire, and a thin plastic box bolted to one end that connected a long, thick cable to the computer.

“You designed this?” Castiel let Dean see the awe in his eyes.

Dean looked smug. “Sure did. Me and my team, anyway. We’re still working out the bugs and have been for the better part of a year. It’s nice to have someone new to try this out on. You’ll help us catch what else we might’ve missed.” He leaned towards Cas with an engaging smile. “I’m guessing you’ll be a natural.”

While Castiel blinked in the afterglare of Dean’s attention, Dean moved to type something on his keyboard, then leaned further away from Castiel to press a button on a large plastic disc which resembled a stealth UFO. “Hey, Ash?”

“What’s up, Dean-o?” A casual drawl emanated from what was apparently an intercom.

“Ash, I’m about ready to go with Castiel Novak. You got the profile set up?”

“Sure, man!” the casual voice replied. “Go, go!” Then he swore. “Shit. No, hold on. Let me copy it over.”

The computer chimed and Dean rolled his eyes at Castiel. “Got it now. Thanks, man.”

Dean pushed another button to end the conversation and then grimaced at Castiel. “I swear we know what we’re doing.”

Castiel thought he looked flustered and oddly, this calmed him. “It’s fine,” he wrote. “Don’t worry.” He glanced curiously down at the headset on the table.

Dean must have seen the question in his eyes because he said, “I’ll get this set up, and then I’ll have you do some trials. There are just a couple things you need to know.”

Castiel nodded. He was ready.

“Hannah sent me your application and test results. No physical defects that you know of, is that right?” Castiel quirked an eyebrow at this, but shook his head. “It shouldn’t matter,” Dean said. “But we’ve found that accuracy is hugely improved if you mouth the words you’re trying to say. So if there are issues with movement range then we gotta compensate for those. There’s something about the mind-body connection that makes those speech signals from your brain a little more clear. So you don’t gotta make a sound. Just...try to talk, that’s all. And the biofeedback from Lyrebird works with the software to help you talk.”

Castiel nodded again, as though he understood how on earth that might make a difference. But if Dean told him to pretend to speak, to mouth the words instead of just think them, he’d do it. He had years of practice _not speaking_ to bolster his efforts.

Sitting very still, he bowed his head to wait for Dean to start attaching the headset. He dropped his hands to his lap, keeping them intentionally wide and relaxed-looking. In reality, the old terror tried to grip him as memories of past pain returned. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Dean tapped his forearm with a fingertip. Castiel looked up.

Dean was looking at him with a curious mix of alarm and empathy. “Are you okay to keep going?” Castiel frowned and nodded adamantly. He was here, wasn’t he?

His fierce look must have convinced Dean because he said, “Okay, but we can stop any time. I’m gonna settle this in place and then we’ll have you run through some test words to calibrate it to you. It’s still a rough design. I’m gonna level with you, the company’s more excited about the software’s prospects for AI speech than devices like this. But I hope we can get a product on the market in a few years.” He jerked his chin at the computer. “And something that’s a little more mobile, you know? Can you imagine carting around this computer on your back all the time?” Castiel forced himself to smile at Dean’s weak joke.

Carefully, Dean picked the headset up from the table, clearing the cords to one side and placing it over Castiel’s head like a crown. The spidering connectors slid along Castiel’s scalp, painless and small, cooled by the room. Dean leaned forward and the room filled with nothing but the sound of their breathing as he arranged the wires to fall in line around Castiel’s temples and forehead. He combed his fingers through Castiel’s hair, parting it to set the tips into place. “I’m checking for a good connection,” he murmured, his mouth close to Castiel’s forehead.

Dean’s proximity felt dizzying. Castiel didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look up to watch the fine textures of Dean’s scruff dance as he spoke. Dean continued speaking, apparently unaffected. Right. He was a professional.

“The way this works,” Dean said, running a finger over Castiel’s ear to part his hair. “We don’t have to shave your head or anything. We’ve come a long way since big, flat electrodes or microneedles that penetrate your--- Well, anyway. I like to make sure the connections aren’t caught on anything before we get started.”

Castiel swallowed and let his eyes slip closed for slow, quiet seconds as Dean’s fingers combed across his scalp.

When Dean pulled away at last, Castiel was electricity personified. He felt abruptly glad that, however this worked, their tests didn’t seem to require that they monitor his vitals. His heartbeat would betray him immediately. It had been so long since he’d been touched so intimately. And how mortifying was that? It was almost beyond endurance just having Dean lean forward to hook the thick cord over his ear, fingers smoothing the plastic behind the delicate skin of his upper ear.

Dean pulled back, then tapped a delicate cord crossing over Castiel’s brow. Castiel stopped breathing as Dean’s touch lingered for a moment. Dean surveyed his setup critically. “Okay, I’m gonna turn this on and get some resting readings, and then we’ll work through some exercises.” Dean flicked a switch behind Castiel’s ear.

Nothing happened. Or nothing seemed to happen. When Castiel’s screwed up his mouth in a questioning slant and pointed at the headset, Dean laughed. “It’s on, I swear. Told ya it would be fine.” Slowly, a smile worked its way onto Castiel’s lips and Dean cocked a finger at him. “There it is. Knew you had it in you. Hold on, I’m just gonna...”

Dean worked in silence at his keyboard for a while, stealing occasional moments to glance reassuringly at Castiel. It was the companionable quiet that put Castiel at ease more than anything. The entire day had been working up to this point, and suddenly it seemed anticlimactic in the best way. He either watched Dean work, or he watched what was apparently a read-out of his brain waves on the nearest monitor. All the while, he reveled in the fact that the Lyrebird didn’t hurt, not even a bit.

When they were ready to test the device, Castiel took a butterfly-filled breath and let it out slowly. He’d been doing this speech-without-speech trick for years now. He could manage it in the face of Dean's intense focus. He looked down at the tablet Dean had placed in front of him. There was a list of phrases and short sentences. Castiel recognized it almost immediately. He’d spent several years in close connection to speech therapists. This particular sample set included words of slowly increasing length and complexity. If he closed his eyes, he could probably recite them from memory alone.

He read the first line, focus attuned to the sheet and controlling his body so he could both say and not say the words. “Time for bed.”

Castiel stopped. A voice emanated from the computer speakers. It wasn’t his voice by any stretch, but Castiel had spent enough years relying on a synthesized voice that this didn’t surprise him. What shocked him is that the words were correct. He felt like he’d just pretended to do something substantial, like mime baking a cake, only to find an actual cake sitting in front of him.

He looked up from the list of phrases. Dean smiled at him, a whirl of emotions on his own face.

Castiel took a moment to work past the disbelief. “This is real?” Castiel asked through the machine. The computerized voice asked the question for him. It made it _sound_ like a question, adding the rising inflection to the end that Castiel had only formed in his head. He laughed, a real, bright, apple-flavored laugh.

“Cool, right?” And that was pride shining on Dean’s face. Well-deserved.

Castiel nodded numbly. _It’s a miracle. _

Castiel read through the sample lines on the tablet, trying to talk around nothing more than air. Cinnamon and blueberry gathered on his tongue. The taste of pepper and egg and sweet raspberry gathered along his teeth. All these almost-words built up the magic inside him, stirring beneath the surface. But he managed to keep his focus.

By the end of the list of test phrases, he’d broken into a sweat and his mouth tasted like an upturned supermarket, but he'd managed it. As he’d read the lines subvocally, Dean had occupied himself at his keyboard, modulating the device into better clarity. He shot an absent-minded thumbs up to Castiel when he’d finished speaking the last word.

Castiel dropped the cue list to his lap and stared at Dean. He took a deep, shuddering breath, held it, then let it out again. He licked his lips, sucking the flavor from them. “This is incredible,” he finally said, struggling to find the right words, or any words. “And you did this.”

Dean shrugged again. “Well. Me and about 6 other people. But yeah.” When he turned back to Castiel, he looked like a normal person. Like it was a normal day for him and not the upending of Castiel’s last twenty years of life.

If this product became wearable. If he could go about his day just...talking to people whenever he wanted? What could change? Maybe not everything, maybe not even that much. But after two decades of feeling the weight of his curse pressing against him, how absolutely freeing it was to think he might be able to cheat and circumvent it. Like it was an adversary he’d been grappling with for years, only to finally slam it into the mat today as he sat in a bland office chair.

Dean seemed blithely unaware of Castiel’s earth-shaking revelation. “So, that’s it for today. Next time we’re gonna have your vocal profile ready to go, so that’ll be fun. You can head to 302 now and set up the rest of your appointments.” Dean looked apologetic, shrugging and indicating the computer. “Right now this uses a ton of processing power but someday I want to get this all to something about the size of a waist pack, you know? So you can wear it around.” Dean unwrapped the headset from Castiel’s scalp with far less care than he’d taken placing it on. The thin wires combed through his hair, tousling it and Castiel smoothed it without thought. Dean grimaced at the motion. “Yeah, sorry.” He placed the headset on the table and held out his hand in a jarringly formal farewell.

Castiel grasped his palm automatically, and shook it slowly. Their hands warmed together; Dean’s fingers wrapped around his own felt incredible. Castiel bobbed his head in a slow nod before releasing Dean’s hand and pulling up his own tablet from his lap. “Thank you,” he wrote.

Dean waved a dismissive hand. “Thanks for coming, man. Uh, you need help finding your way out?”

Castiel shook his head. FutureTech might be huge, but he’d circulated the better half of a single hallway the entire afternoon. He could find his way back.

And he would find his way back here, Castiel resolved as he bade farewell to Dean and started down the corridor. He’d done it. He had spoken out loud and kept the curse at bay with the help of Dean’s device. Maybe someday it wouldn’t even feel any different than a scar in terms of the effect it had on his daily life.

_Live your life,_ Charlie had suggested. Castiel turned those words over in his mind, the promise of them brighter than ever.

**One Week Later**

Castiel’s throat burned and his eyes stung and suddenly there was no way he could concentrate on trying to mouth words anymore. Because over the computer’s speaker, saying the innocuous list of phrases he’d read last week, was _his voice_.

He thought he had been prepared. Dean had told him casually as he positioned the headset that day, that Hannah and the mysterious Ash had finished establishing a vocal profile for him. “Tailored to you,” Dean had said cheerily. But Castiel reflected as he swallowed against threatening tears that there was no adequate preparation.

It was an odd thing being able to talk perfectly well with nobody around, but to use another voice to deal with anyone else. The smooth male voice he’d adopted as his own, and which issued from his tablet, had become his voice in many ways. He’d grown used to it over the years, his own voice changing with age, fluctuating with colds or exhaustion, while the computerized voice was immutable.

Now, with his vocal profile in place, he’d heard his own voice issue from the computer as he read the tablet. More importantly, Dean had heard it as well. It hadn’t been him speaking aloud but it was still..._him_. And there were no pies to betray him.

Castiel swallowed. Blinked. Looked away. He knew Dean was watching him. Castiel struggled to take a calming breath and when he felt steadier, returned his gaze. Dean wore a patient smile. _God, he must have seen this - how many times? How many people were even in the study? How many lives shaken like this?_

“Take your time,” Dean said gently.

Castiel rolled his lower lip in his teeth and nodded. “I’m okay,” he said with deliberately narrow focus. It was easier not to be overwhelmed if he only thought about the practical function of forming words. “It has been a very long time.” From the speakers, his voice emphasized the word _very_ with desperate strain and Castiel wanted to break all over again.

Later, he would lay in bed, sleepless, and worry about that statement. If he’d “lost” his ability to speak in childhood, he wouldn’t have ever heard his own adult speech, in theory. How terrifyingly easy it was for lies to unravel with a single mistake. But Dean didn’t seem to question it.

“It’s not the same,” Dean demurred. “We know it’s only an approximation and honestly? We’re still working out some bugs. But Ash thinks we’re really close.”

Castiel couldn’t stop himself from laughing in disbelief and ginger flooded his tongue. He focused on the facsimile speech then, carefully enunciating through the device, “I think it’s incredible. Perfect,” he said, because it was. “Sorry. I’m ready now. I’m okay.”

“It’s a big deal,” Dean said. “It’s okay. Take all the time you need.”

Castiel smiled at the self-effacing man in front of him, who had somehow helped to craft this amazing device. “I’m going to make you a pie,” he declared, and the computer got it exactly right: the softness, the awe, the absolutely hopeless infatuation.

And Castiel found that he didn’t care a bit.


	3. The Night Market

“I’m going to ask him out.”

Charlie’s response was to punch Castiel rather sharply in the arm. “Dude,” she said. “Yes.”

Castiel laughed and dropped his tablet back to his chest, the glowing screen becoming an outline against his shirt. The speech study had stretched through the rest of the summer, turning the season extraordinary. Once a week he went back to FutureTech and for one golden hour, he talked to Dean.

It would be one thing if Dean were just attractive. That heat, in Castiel’s experience, faded over time and exposure. But Dean had proven to be wickedly smart, constantly enthusiastic, and terribly gentle with Castiel as he navigated the Lyrebird and endless rounds of software updates.

Castiel stared up at the sky. Wispy clouds filled with refracted light obscured any hope of seeing the Perseids, but he barely noticed the cloud cover. Hell, he barely noticed it was night. All he could think about was the next day. It would be his last session at FutureTech, the study officially complete unless the project was greenlit for a wearable product.

“I wonder what kind of pie ‘do you wanna go out with me’ makes?” Charlie wondered.

Castiel flipped his tablet up and wrote his response quickly. Excitement bubbling in his gut mixed with the ever-present fear of rejection. “I’ll let you know,” he said.

“It’s a...pink lemonade pie,” Castiel explained as he nudged the pie box towards Dean, top flap open. When it had manifested, Castiel had surveyed it skeptically. That apparently was a ‘do you wanna go out with me’ pie. It was pink. Very pink. The whipped filling resembled nothing short of a cloud and the curse had even concocted tiny little flamingo-pink sprinkles in the shape of martini glasses.

Dean pulled the pie towards himself, brows drawn in serious contemplation. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into the pie plate and scooped a dollop of filling onto his finger. Slowly, deliberately, he moved that finger to his lips, drew it inside, and sucked the cream off the tip.

Castiel swallowed hard.

Dean smirked then winked in an entirely inappropriate way for a scientist leading a major study. “Delicious as always,” he said at last. “But it’s still not my favorite.”

Castiel laughed at him. “Yeah, I guessed that,” he said easily, the headset wires tickling his temples and his voice coming from the computer’s speakers. “But it’s a nice summer pie. Light, sweet, and a little sour.”

“Aw,” Dean joked as he pushed the pie back between them and slid two forks over, “Just like you.”

The first time Castiel brought Dean pie, it had merely been to fulfill his promise from their first session. It had been a simple pie, a thank you offering of sweet apple and sugar. Dean’s reaction had been, in Castiel’s opinion, far greater than any single dessert should ever earn. He’d grinned, told Castiel that pies weren’t necessary, then jumped up from the table and left the room with one finger held up like he was about to complete a thought. A few minutes later, he’d returned with two forks and they’d eaten in comfortable silence while Dean made faces that at times approached something more suited for the bedroom than the boardroom.

Dean’s response had been utterly addictive. Castiel brought a new pie with him every time.

Now, Dean moved his chair closer to Castiel, as he’d done throughout the summer. They sat side by side this way, shoulders brushing as they took turns leaning in to snare bites of the pie. It was impossible to not want more of this. Castiel wanted to draw out more of those groans of pleasure from his pies. He wanted to draw out other kinds as well.

Castiel had spent the last several years determined to never date until he was cured, hell bent on nothing more than undoing his curse before moving on with his life. Now, he had a different hope dangled in front of him: hope that FutureTech would move forward with Lyrebird and that someday he could talk to other people, seamlessly, without producing a single pie. Now, he had the prospect of spending more time with Dean - soft, astonishing Dean - and he didn’t think he could ever get enough of that fantasy either.

Miniature pies disappear quickly, and the pink lemonade pie was no different. Dean engaged Castiel’s fork in some light swordplay as they drew near the bottom of the pan, defeating him to steal the last bite. Dean sighed contentedly and dropped the utensil into the empty pan. “You have spoiled me, man. I’m gonna miss this.”

Castiel tapped his fork thoughtfully against the empty plate, mouth dropping open to speak. _This doesn’t have to be it. Go out with me._ The speaker hummed the way it did when the words balanced on the tip of his brain, half formed but not concentrated enough to achieve full substance.

Dean dropped his chin to his hand theatrically. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Castiel couldn’t help but smile in response, gratified when Dean’s attention dropped to his lips. He opened his mouth to speak and stalled out again, cognizant of Dean’s shirt sleeve brushing against his arm. He should ask him out now. To dinner, or for a walk through the River’s Edge park. He wondered if Dean visited a gym, or played sports, or if he was a runner like Castiel. Was there somewhere outside of the lab where he could conveniently run into him afterwards? Surely he hadn’t misinterpreted the signals he thought Dean had been sending? Or...had he gotten it all wrong?

“Or not. Should we…get started?” Dean asked eventually. Castiel felt his entire being deflate as the opportunity to ask Dean out ghosted away.

“Yes. Of course.”

Dean rolled his chair away to snag the tablet of the day’s verbal exercises. He slid it over to Castiel and busied himself on the computer before raising a finger in the air. “Okay. You’re good to go.”

Castiel read through the day’s lines. Between them, he watched Dean. He seemed tenser than when they’d sat and shared their pie. Castiel wondered if there was something going on with the project; if FutureTech had decided they’d gotten everything out of it they wanted, and were planning to shelve the prospect of developing a wearable.

That thought ached, and only partially because of what he would be missing if Lyrebird never made it to market. Over the past few months, he’d witnessed how much of himself Dean poured into his work. He always spoke so lightly, so dismissively of his contributions, but everything he had seemed dedicated to making it work for larger-scale production. The headset had gone from something a little too Frankenstein’s Monster to ever pass for normal to something sleek and lightweight, designed in black and chrome silver. Now it might pass for an elaborate bluetooth headset more than anything.

Castiel was just working up the nerve to ask Dean if he’d heard bad news about the future of the project when Dean stopped typing and sucked in a deep breath. He turned towards Castiel with a look of trepidation, fingertips running restlessly along the table edge. “So,” he said, and after another moment, “Cas.”

Castiel raised a querying brow. “Yes, Dean?” The converted voice sounded a bit more amused than he thought he felt, but Castiel couldn’t complain. Dean seemed to relax at the lighter tone and glanced up to meet Castiel’s gaze.

“I was wondering. Do you--” Dean cleared his throat and Castiel thought that a true mind-reading-to-speech device would be incredibly useful right at that moment. He could use it on Dean and get all the answers he needed without having to wait and hope to hear what he wanted.

Dean scrubbed a palm across the back of his neck. “D’you have a stall at the Night Market this year?”

Castiel’s eyes widened, then he quickly schooled his expression. The Night Market was an annual event, held one night only, beginning on the evening of the Fall equinox.

The Market was a street fair by the simplest definition, with live music and food vendors. Superficially, there was nothing to distinguish it from any other city fair except for the timing of it. However, less typical to most towns in America, this fair was also widely known as a magical fair. During the Night Market, magical vendors - real and charlatan alike - crawled out of the woodwork to sell their wares openly to the city of Maltese. While there were certainly non-magical offerings, Castiel had refused to embed his food truck in the market. He preferred to avoid even an incidental association with magic, even if all he sold there were hand-made wares. If rumor spread that he sold magical food, he could likely kiss his regular customers goodbye.

“No,” Castiel said, absolutely shocked to hear how steady the computer’s speakers said it. He was really starting to master Lyrebird. “I won’t be there with my truck.”

To his surprise, Dean seemed extremely pleased with this answer. “So you’re free that night?”

Castiel slowly nodded. _Where was he going with this? _

“Wanna come with me then? Um. Me and Kevin, that is. I’ve never been and Kevin asked me if I would go with him because he’s never been and someone’s gotta look after the kid and--” Dean stopped speaking abruptly and grimaced. “Sorry. Rambling.”

“You...want to know if I can go to the Market with you?”

“Yeah. It’d be kinda nice to go there with another foodie, you know? Like you.”

“A ‘foodie’ like me,” Castiel tested the word. He’d been called similar before by his brothers, but their taunts had made it clear that was a bad thing. When Dean said it, it sounded...golden. Good. “Okay,” he found himself agreeing before he’d entirely grasped what had just happened. “I’ll go.”

The day of the Night Market came up before Castiel felt quite ready for it. He lay in bed that morning staring at the ceiling and prodding delicately at the thudding fear that had taken the place of his heart overnight. He rubbed circles into his chest, trying to force relaxation back into his body with each breath. It would be easier to stay in bed. He’d return to his work and his quiet mornings alone in the kitchen or the solitude of his truck.

Castiel closed his eyes, and murmured a verse from one of his favorite poems.

> _“The leaves fall, fall as from far. Like distant gardens withered in the heavens. They fall with slow and lingering descent.”_

Eyes still closed, Castiel eased the Rilke-inspired sunken cottage pie away from his lips and placed it on the bedside table. He’d heat up some coffee and eat it for breakfast; sturdy fare for a long day ahead. He ran his tongue along his teeth, examining the first warm flavor of fall. It was autumn today. Officially, at least. The Equinox marked the end of summer, but looking ahead, Castiel felt a little bit like he was staring at the sun.

He opened his eyes to the dull dawn, then heaved himself up to sitting, swinging his legs to the side of the bed. There, he paused for a moment, collecting himself.

_Charlie’s right,_ he thought. _I deserve this. _

That became a mantra for the morning. He had opted to close the truck for the day, feeling far too jittery to work with customers. Instead, he went for a long run, pushing his body and letting the strain of his muscles and the harsh pulse of his breath crowd out the worry that something would go wrong.

By the time evening rolled around, he had tamed his more insidious demons. He sat comfortably on the front stoop of his building while he waited for Dean to arrive. Whatever happened, would happen. Whether it was a dat or not...or if it went well or not... There was no point in agonizing over it, right? He inhaled deeply, watching the neighborhood bustle around him.

The equinox was a strange time, magical city or not. It heralded the official start of fall, but Maltese still held firmly onto the hem of summer’s dress. Flowers bloomed out of season on the equinox, filling the trees with night-blooming morning glories which twined through branches. The air was sweet with a heady mix of bloom and early leaf decay. By the next morning, the leaves would begin to turn like well-trained dogs and fall to the ground one by one.

Castiel sat on the stoop and breathed it all in, enjoying the hum of insects until his ears finally picked up the sound he’d been waiting for: the deep rumble of Dean’s car.

Dean had shown up at Honey Pies a handful of times during the study and, wherever he went, so went his mammoth, venerable she-beast of a car. Castiel, once he’d seen Dean’s car, had committed its sound to memory in the way of the hopelessly infatuated.

Dean pulled up to the curb, as smooth as anything, and Castiel saw that the front seat was empty. Kevin and a woman sat in the back seat, Kevin’s arm slung casually across her shoulders. “Hey, Cas!” Dean called, arm slung over the wide bench seat.

Castiel waved at the car’s occupants as he slid into the passenger seat, the Impala creaking a welcome as he settled in. Dean gestured towards the back seat. “You remember Kevin. And this is his girlfriend, Channing.”

“Hey,” Kevin said easily, and Channing sent him a dimpled smile as well. Castiel flipped them a terribly awkward two fingered salute as he settled into the passenger seat. To cover his awkwardness, he turned his attention to Dean’s car. He ran a reverent finger along the dash and then write on his tablet, “She’s more beautiful up close.” This appeared to be the correct thing to say, because Dean beamed at him.

“She was my dad’s,” he said. “I helped rebuild her myself more times’n I could count.” As they drove away from the curb and through the twilit city streets, Dean regaled them all about the virtues of his car. Castiel listened with a mixture of amusement and fondness, and wondered if Dean had insisted on driving so that he could impress Castiel with his “Baby.” The thought thrilled him.

_He certainly looks good tonight,_ Castiel thought appreciatively. Dean wore jeans faded white along the thighs, more an artful effect to accentuate his beautiful legs than actual wear-and-tear. A dark green henley brought out his eyes and his freckled nose. Dean seemed to glow tonight, at ease behind the wheel as he leaned back against the seat with one arm slung over the back - close, but not quite touching Castiel.

Castiel had also made more of an effort to impress, in dark jeans and a crisp button-down, with the sleeves rolled up to display his forearms. He wore a wide, gold belt buckle that Charlie had found for him last summer at a flea market. It was supposed to have good luck charms carved into it. While Castiel tried to avoid overt association of himself with magic, he felt like a charm was innocuous enough. And if it helped him tonight, so much the better.

Dean filled the drive with amiable discussion about his prized Impala, but the conversation ceased when they parked and got out of the car on a street close to the Market’s south entrance.

As soon as they emerged, they could practically taste the fair on the air. It was salt and buttered popcorn, it was roasting meat and open flame, and music so loud that it broke apart against the buildings into high notes and low bass thrums. Underneath it all was the sweet, rotten smell of the Equinox and the chatter of insects before cold cast them back into the earth. It was overwhelming, and it stunned them all to reverent silence.

The south entrance was a steel archway sculpted into vines, with old forks, soup spoons, and garden tools hacked apart and welded into flowers. Somebody had hung little canvas squares along the arch, painted with mystical beasts twining around letters that spelled out N-I-G-H-T M-A-R-K-E-T. Beyond the archway, holiday lights twinkled in every color, some strung neatly in angles around windows and doors and others cast haphazardly to dangle down the sheer brick walls like spilling yarn.

They hesitated outside the archway, looking at each other with more than a hint of nerve. All, that is, except for Channing. She surveyed them with amusement, then proffered her arm to Kevin. “The band I want to see starts soon on the First Street crossroad,” she said. “Who’s coming?” She glanced at Dean and Castiel.

Dean was looking beyond the archway, his gaze fixed on something just outside of Castiel’s line of vision. “Can we meet up with you later?” he asked. Channing and Kevin exchanged looks of unexplained significance before Kevin flashed a grin at Castiel.

“Yeah, sure.” Kevin waved at them and allowed Channing to pull him through the archway. “We’ll text you when the show’s over, okay? Meet up then? Or come find us any time.”

Dean looked at Castiel, and Castiel looked at Dean. He felt a sudden compulsion to mirror the other couple and offer Dean his arm as well, but resisted the urge. He jerked his chin towards the archway with a questioning quirk of his mouth and Dean seemed to jolt into action.

Together, they walked inside.

Just inside the gate crowds started to coalesce. Rows of open air or canopied stalls marched down either side of the street. Banners flapped in the light breeze. Above the general din, Castiel could hear barkers shouting their wares to passersby.

Dean immediately dragged him over to a long line in front of a big, blue-signed stall that read TOKENS. “I read about this. No money at the stalls,” Dean explained. “We buy tokens instead.” He jabbed his thumb behind them towards clouds of steam and smoke coming from a cluster of food vendors. “I’m starving. You don’t mind, do you?”

Castiel shook his head, amused at Dean’s single minded pursuit of food. While they waited in line Dean asked, “Would you ever run a stall here? Seems like the perfect place for your pies.”

_You have no idea. _Castiel shrugged and fished his tablet out of his pocket. “I did get asked,” he admitted. “But if I’d accepted then I wouldn’t be here with you,” he said, looking over Dean meaningfully to test the waters, steeling himself for disappointment.

Dean met his gaze. “Yeah, good point,” he said with a husky undertone. They stared at each other long enough that the line in front of them moved to form a visibly large gap. The couple behind them shifted pointedly closer, and Dean glanced around before sliding forward. He hooked his hand on Castiel’s forearm and pulled him forward alongside him, closer than they’d stood before. “So. Tell me about your work. D’you keep odd hours with your truck?”

Castiel laughed, pineapple sweet. “My schedule can be erratic but it’s not too bad these days. I used to do all my baking in the middle of the night, practically. Now it’s early morning or the evening before, depending on whether I’m doing breakfast, lunch, or something else.”

Dean shuddered theatrically. “So you’re one of those people.” His tone marked a death knell. “A morning person.”

Pulling his expression into something sympathetic, Castiel tilted his head as if to ask, _And you’re not?_

Apparently reading his look, Dean said, “I’m better after a cup of coffee. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Castiel couldn’t help himself; he filed that little fact away for later and tried not to examine that concept too closely. Coffee he could do, though. “I used to own a store,” he confided, holding the tablet a little tighter. “The hours were worse, if you can believe it. There’s a lot more overhead to manage.”

“You had a store?” Dean asked. “Like a bakery?”

Castiel nodded solemnly. “A bakery isn’t very mobile. I wanted to move.” Sometimes typing was a boon to him, a way to cut the words from his body and leave his behind. His restaurant had barely lasted two years, back when he’d been foolish enough to try to settle down and live his life. Back when he’d been foolish enough to try to love and be loved openly.

“So you, what? Closed up shop? Bought a food truck and drove off looking for adventure?”

Castiel nodded. That was more or less true, minus the heartbreak.

“That’s pretty amazing.” Dean sounded wistful. “Although, the world’s missing out. You could do cookbooks.” He gave Castiel a frankly appreciative once over. “Or a TV show. You’d look good on TV.”

Castiel did laugh at that. “You’re kind,” he wrote, making a face. “I like my truck. It’s freedom.”

To his surprise, Dean nodded slowly at this. “I get that. The freedom of the open road. Or, I guess, the city streets?”

“Something like that,” Castiel typed. “I like the variety,” he said, which was something closer to the truth. “And seeing new places is a nice bonus.”

With a faraway tone, Dean said, “I grew up like that. Always on the move.” He trailed off and Castiel thought he might have to settle for burning with curiosity, but Dean continued, “After my mom died, my dad started to travel for work. Construction, mostly. He dragged me and my brother around with him. My car - Baby - she was my dad’s car first. She was like my home for a while growing up, moving from job to job.” He looked away, fixed on a distant point above the tents.

Castiel thought about the gleaming car, picturing a younger Dean prowling in its orbit. “She was a beautiful home for you then.” Tension in Dean cleared and Castiel felt the same easing, like he had just passed some kind of test.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “She really was.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shuffled forward in line, and if possible, his smile seemed even warmer than before. “The first time I had deep fried bacon on a stick was when we stopped at the Iowa State Fair on our way to a hotel gig in Vegas.” He whistled. “Best damn thing I ever ate in my life. They’re selling ‘em at that tent back there and Cas? You are in for a treat.” He jerked his thumb back towards the stalls they’d passed on their way in, and Castiel thought he understood Dean’s sudden decision to split away from Kevin. Nostalgia was a powerful thing. To be allowed to share in Dean’s childhood memories suddenly seemed like a wonderful form of intimacy. It warmed him.

They bought their tokens and beelined for the stall across the street. There was no business name, just a very large banner that read FRIED BACON ON STICK. _Truth in advertising,_ Castiel thought with amusement, only becoming flustered when Dean insisted on using his own tokens to purchase them each a fried treat.

They wandered together through the crowd as they stripped off salty-sweet battered bacon, aimless and apparently with no intention of joining up with Kevin and Channing anytime soon. Castiel bought them each beer in cheap plastic cups, and they settled in front of another bandstand while a comedian-fiddler duo entertained the crowd. The act shouldn’t have worked; Dean muttered that it was an abomination as they sat down. But they were soon consumed in belly laughs that added a sweet ginger tinge to Castiel’s beer as they drank.

While they relaxed and sipped at their beer, Castiel watched Dean, drinking him in gulps. More than once, he caught Dean doing the same. Their eyes would lock then flustered, skate away. Dean was such a beautiful man, wickedly smart, incredibly sweet, and remarkably open. Castiel wondered with increasing frequency, what it would feel like to kiss him. To lose himself in Dean.

The fiddling act ended with an enthusiastic flourish and a smattering of applause, and those fairgoers who had paused to lean against the little tables interspersed through the crowd around the bandstand began to drift away for more liquor from the nearby stall, or to disappear into the fair

Dean and Castiel wandered the market. Kevin and Channing had apparently given them up as a lost cause or, Castiel was beginning to suspect, their abandonment had been even more orchestrated than he’d originally suspected. He couldn’t complain.

They strolled, stopping at stalls to examine clothing and art from corporate stalls and shady, shabby trinket traders alike. While they walked, their shoulders shuddered into each other in the pressing crowd and their knuckles knocked like some sly precursor to holding hands.

Night began to fall properly, the rosy flush gone from the sky and the light of a few of the brighter stars straggling past the ambient city light to greet the market-goers. Castiel paused at a stall offering free samples of ice cream in small paper cups. He picked up two and was just reaching for the little wooden paddles that passed for tasting spoons when Dean gripped his arm.

His fingers wound tight on Castiel’s forearm, fingers digging in with unexpected force. “Dude, not those.”

Castiel looked at the little paper cups, then up at Dean, eyes widening in response to the alarm he saw there. He nodded and, with a grimace to the redheaded woman standing there with a stormcloud growing on her face, he set the cups back down. As Dean tugged him away, Castiel mouthed an apology at her for touching cups he wouldn’t be taking and she scowled at him, arms slipping into an irritable knot.

“This is the Night Market, man. Didn’t you notice the container in the back of the stall?” Dean hissed as he pulled at Castiel’s arm. Castiel racked his memory and pictured the corner of the dark little stall. It had held the woman’s wares: little half pints of small batch ice cream settled in a cooler ensconced in lavender mist. He nodded, slowly. _What was his point? _

“You shouldn’t eat that,” Dean said sharply. “It’s magic.”

If anyone else of limited acquaintance had said that to Castiel, he would have changed the subject quickly, taken his leave, and tried to forget about it. But Dean had said the word _magic_ with such vitriol that it shook Castiel out of the pleased fog he’d allowed himself to drift into. He felt his face settle into a mulish expression but found he didn’t care as he jerked his tablet from his pocket and wrote, “It’s just ice cream.”

Dean’s look of disbelief conveyed reams of feelings on the subject. “Believe me,” he said. “It’s never just ice cream. Not when there’s magic involved.”

Castiel gestured around them, encompassing the twinkling lights and teeming stalls before punching out on his tablet. “What exactly did you think to find here?”

With a twist of his mouth, Dean looked a shade apologetic as he said, “Sorry. Didn’t hear that.”

Castiel snapped the tablet into his hand so he could read it, shame and fear and insult and longing warring for supremacy. Dean must have read his distress in his eyes because tilted his chin towards the sky and let his eyes flutter closed as though he were taking a moment to compose himself. As Castiel watched, Dean took deep breaths before opening his eyes. With a note of apology he leaned forward and asked, “Can we talk somewhere quieter?”

_What would be the point?_ Castiel wanted to ask. He’d done this dance before, with Jacob. It wouldn’t end well.

Castiel nodded shortly, and he and Dean walked towards the next side street rolling off the Market. Unlike the southern gate, this street’s barrier was marked only by a line of portable bathroom stalls dangling a little ways off the main street and a cluster of bicycles chained to a nearby streetlamp.

Outside of the market, the street was especially dark, and the lack of lights in the homes suddenly seemed to Castiel to be an indictment of the Night Market’s revelry. They walked down the sidewalk, not touching now.

Castiel used the silence between them to try to gather his thoughts. He hated his curse. It had ruined his life in so many ways. But it was still a part of him and, he realized with a jolt, he was _proud_ of what he did with it. He never hurt anybody with his pies. They were just food. Just like that ice cream. He tried to bundle up and quarantine his hurt so he could present a calm facade, but his fingers trembled from suppressed words, from emotion packing up like lava under his skin.

Dean pulled him towards a low stone wall covered in soft, green moss. Castiel sat next to him, conscious of the distance between them. He flipped his tablet onto one knee. “That was rude,” he wrote pointedly. “And embarrassing.”

If Dean had looked defiant, if he’d tried to spend one more minute convincing Castiel of his imminent danger, or foolishness in consuming something magical, then Castiel would have walked away without looking back.

Instead, Dean looked abashed. No, that wasn’t the right word. He looked...shattered.

“I know,” Dean said. “I’m...I’m sorry about that. It was stupid. Really stupid.”

Castiel raised one brow as if to say, _Yes, and?_

Dean rubbed his palms along his jeans, for all the world like he was nervous. “I know the Market’s a place for magic and…” he took a deep breath, “I know that’s okay for...for a lot of people. I just...it’s second nature to me, you know?” Dean took in Castiel’s confusion and deflated further. “You don’t know.” Scrubbing his hair, he swore. When he dropped his hand, it shook in his lap until he pushed it against the stone wall between them instead. Castiel stared for a moment at that hand, knuckles white along the edge of the rock, before looking up at Dean again. He was _panicking_. Dean’s breath came out short and heavy. Castiel watched Dean mouth a few false starts to an explanation, then he laid one hand on Dean’s softly.

Dean flinched at the touch, so small that it would have gone unnoticed had Castiel not been cradling the back of his hand with his palm, trying to will him to relax his grip on the wall.

“So,” Dean said, staring hard at the silhouette of a tree across the street. “There’s a reason for… I didn’t think before I…”

Castiel pulled his tablet in so he could balance it easily and still cradle Dean’s hand as he wrote. “What happened back there?”

Dean chewed on his lip. “My mom died when I was a kid. House fire. My dad got me and my brother out but before he could go back in for her, the house just…” The fingers of his other hand fluttered, like ashes spreading in the wind. “She died because of magic. My dad bought her this thing from a guy selling stuff out of his trunk at a gas station. A wishing candle?” He glanced sideways at Castiel, who shook his head at Dean’s prompt. He’d never heard of such a thing.

“It’s s’posed to bring good luck. Bring you your heart’s desire,” Dean spat. “Instead it burned our house down and...and our mom with it.” The fire department said it was just a candle that caught the living room on fire but I-- Me and my dad. We knew the truth. There was purple smoke all around the house, curling out from the door. Magic,” he said. “The color of magic.”

Castiel pictured the vat holding the ice cream, remembering the way it smoked lavender in the chill evening. A modicum of understanding stole over him. That must have been what set Dean rigid in the middle of the market. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he wrote.

Dean dropped his head. “Yeah.” Gradually, with only the muffled sounds of the Market nearby, Dean’s breathing steadied. His hand soothed against the rock, fingers relaxing up into Castiel’s palm.

_I should let it go,_ Castiel thought. But stubbornness won out. “Not all magic is bad,” he wrote, the tone of the tablet making light conversation rather than accusations.

“I know that. In theory.” Dean’s mouth quirked downward. “It’s just hard to see sometimes, is all. I’m…I’m fine now.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Nah, gotta wait around for Kevin and Channing.” Dean sighed and slumped down, arms balanced on his knees. He stared at the sidewalk for some time before rolling his chin to look at Castiel. “Besides, I was having fun.” He looked at Castiel steadily. “Sorry if I ruined the night for you.”

Castiel hesitated, then shook his head. _It’s not ruined,_ he thought. But there was a lot for him to unpack from this short conversation alone. But if anyone could understand feeling traumatized by magic, Castiel thought it would be himself.

“You ever wish,” Dean said at last, “That you could just...reverse time? Make a different choice? I would’ve maybe _not_ freaked out in front of you.”

Castiel knew that feeling intimately. He wished he could reverse time whenever he thought about the dry, dusty day when he met the witch and his life changed forever. If Castiel had done one thing different, spent another minute brushing his teeth or gone to visit his mother even a half hour later… If he’d avoided the witch, how would his life be different?

He pictured it: attending the right schools, wearing the right clothes, working at the family business for every inch and second of his life. He never would have devoted himself to his passion for baking. He’d never have moved to Maltese and met Charlie. He’d never have met Dean.

Castiel shrugged. “It’s not all bad,” he wrote, making several choices at once. As Dean watched him, Castiel let a grin grow. “I got you in a dark street all to myself.”

Dean sucked in a surprised breath, lips parting. Castiel moved closer slowly, sliding along the wall and allowing Dean time to move away. Instead, Dean swayed into his orbit and moved closer himself until their legs pressed together and, shortly after that, their lips.

Dean’s lips were warm and soft and utterly, perfectly pliant under the weight of Castiel’s kiss. Castiel sank into it, letting the rest of the evening cease to matter as long as he could be here, kissing Dean. The other man twined a hand into Castiel’s shirt and Castiel suppressed a pleased groan, deepening the kiss and bringing up one hand to brush along the soft stubble on Dean’s jaw.

It was perfect and quiet all around them, and from the trees and all around them the air smelled like change.

In the early hours of the morning, Dean drove them all home. Kevin and Channing, once settled in the back seat of the Impala, transformed into an exhausted two-headed lump, and slumped off with quiet farewells when Dean dropped them off. Then Dean drove towards Castiel’s apartment with companionable silence between them.

They had, to Castiel’s absolute delight, spent quite a lot of time off the main market row kissing and exploring each other, Dean murmuring sweetly in his ear. When they returned to the market, it was with a new ease. Dean had insisted they return to the ice cream stall, and picked up a paper cup himself before handing it to Castiel. Castiel had thought about preventing him. He didn’t require tests (only more kissing, please). But Dean seemed to need it, like he was finally climbing over a wall that he’d spent his entire life trying to scale. Castiel had eaten the ice cream feeling half guilty, like he’d forced Dean to venture into dangerous waters. Dean had noticeably watched him for any adverse effects, but he’d also resumed kissing Castiel. So all was apparently well enough.

As Castiel let himself into his apartment, their last kiss still warming his body with electrical charge, he finally slumped. If only letting go of his own past was that easy for him. He’d spent the evening reining himself in, letting himself enjoy Dean’s kiss - but not too much, lest Dean suddenly taste chocolate or raspberry when none was consumed and discover the truth.

He fell asleep that night stirred up and unsatisfied.

Castiel dreamed.

_A moan dangled on the edge of Castiel’s tongue as lips - talented lips - pressed into his thigh. His fingers were tangled in hair. In the sheets. And he was burning up. On the edge. God, he just wanted to cry out. Moan and grunt and…and…_

No_._

_If a sound passed his lips, even something so formless as an incoherent sigh of pleasure, the taste of it would linger on his tongue. And when Dean’s lips traveled back to his mouth, would he wonder? Would he know?_

_Would he know?_

_Dean’s mouth left his thigh. Warm fingers wrapped around his cock and Castiel cried out then, sinfully dark chocolate coating his tongue. Dean would kiss him now. He’d kiss him and…he’d know. Castiel scrambled back into the sheets, hands scrabbling and twisting and catching in the folds of the fabric. There was so much fabric!_

_A hand pressed against his hip and a warm body - Dean and also horribly, not Dean - pressed against him. And Castiel was falling. No, he was being devoured by bedsheets. Drowned in them. He shouted, once, “No!”_

And then he was awake. Gasping.

Castiel took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm down. The nightmare still chased him - the bliss so closely followed by horror. He squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his mouth tight and tried to will himself to normalcy again. He passed a shaking hand through his sweat-dampened hair before dropping it to his chest.

Something hard and sticky lay there. Castiel picked up the ball of singed dough and hurled it sightlessly at the wall. He heard it crack into the plaster and fracture, pieces of pie spattering to the floor. His mouth tasted like he’d been sucking on firewood, all cinder and char.


	4. The Throne Room

The city was always restless after the Market. Castiel felt this doubly so, like he was hollowed out and desperate to be filled. He ran at the treadmill in the crowded gym and chased… And chased...

It had been so long since he’d even contemplated dating anybody. The prospect of revealing his magic to someone he cared about was a terrifying thing. With the notable exception of Charlie, it tended to go very poorly for Castiel. His last relationship had burned him out on the idea of dating, of opening himself up to anyone new who might be able to wound him so deeply. And yet…

And yet. He was dating Dean now.

In so many ways, it was incredible, like every fantasy Castiel had ever entertained about normalcy had been supercharged. With his heightened joy, however, came increased anxiety.

The surrounding gym was a distant concern. Castiel ran in a fog, muscles protesting, lungs burning, while he tried to outrun the fear that gripped him when he thought about showing Dean his curse. Would Dean accept it, tolerate it? Or would he repudiate Castiel because of his long-ingrained dislike of magic. _Fear of magic,_ Castiel’s brain helpfully supplied.

A slender arm reached across the treadmill bar and hit the emergency stop button.

The treadmill stopped flowing almost instantly and Castiel felt his knees try to buckle at the unplanned change of pace. He instinctively grabbed for the bars and leaned heavily on them, glaring at his interruptor. _Charlie._

“Dude, I’ve been calling your name for like five minutes.” Her words were irate and impatient, but her lips were puckered in worry. “And you’re not even wearing headphones.”

Castiel heaved deep, shuddering breaths that were definitely only attributable to running and tried to level a glare at her.

“Come on.” Charlie prodded his tablet meaningfully, swinging in the mesh gym bag he’d slung over the treadmill’s cup holder. “Help me stretch.”

Castiel briefly contemplated stubbornly restarting his machine, but his calf muscle gave an angry quiver as he pressed weight into it. Castiel deflated, then nodded. He followed Charlie out of the room of humming machinery and into an adjacent hallway. The hallway was one of the best parts of the gym; window bays in the old building had been transformed into almost-private pods perfect for stretching or a solo yoga session. When Castiel was there on his own, he could stretch there and feel like it was just himself and the city.

Charlie picked an empty bay far down the hallway, settling them in an insulated space of their very own to talk.

“So. What’s going on with you?” Charlie planted her feet wide and swung her fingers to the floor. She strained for her toes with an anguished groan.

Castiel eased himself to the floor and extended his aching leg in front of him, propping the tablet next to his knee so he could write easily. “Just a lot on my mind.”

“And you can’t tell me? Isn’t that better than a leg cramp?” She pressed her hands to the floor and bent her knees before toppling onto her rear. She laid on her back with her shoulders lax. “Blegh.” Her face was flushed red and she had that irritated, rumpled look she always wore after exercising. Castiel softened at it and he tapped her splayed leg before returning to the tablet.

“If it hurts..._stretch_.” He waited until she’d begrudgingly brought one leg up and hugged it to her chest. “Things with Dean have been good.” Castiel made a face.

Charlie smiled sympathetically. “Too good? In an ‘oh god it’s gonna fall apart’ kinda way?” Castiel nodded. “Been there. Done that.”

“We’ve been on three dates and they’ve all been...perfect. He’s amazing.” Dean was so easy to talk to, Castiel found it hard to remind himself that there were things Dean didn’t know. Things he _couldn’t_ know.

“So are you.” It was Castiel’s turn to frown at Charlie. She released one leg with a deep groan and then pulled in the other. “And if there’s one thing I wanna see you get out of this Dean guy, it’s that some of _that_ idea gets through your head.”

“I’ve been having nightmares,” Castiel confessed quickly, nudging the volume down on the tablet. “Almost every night.” He swallowed hard and bowed his head over his knee, composing himself as he eased a different kind of tension into his muscles. “In them, I want to talk. Or laugh. Or...stuff like that. When he kisses me, he can taste the magic. And then he leaves.”

Charlie let her other leg flop down and rolled to her side, sympathy written across her features. “Cas.”

Castiel shook his head, not sure if he was denying his own foolish nightmares or accepting his friend’s solidarity. He pulled his legs up into a butterfly stretch and breathed into it for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then he looked at her seriously, wishing he could convey everything right then: all his worry and frustration tangled up with the absolute joy he’d experienced under the concentrated spotlight of Dean’s attention. Her face was open, eyes wide and imploring him to talk to him. The question he had for her weighed on him, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking about it since the morning after the Market.

“I said I was done dealing with the curse,” he wrote. “And I was.”

“But now there’s Dean.”

Castiel swallowed and nodded.

“You think maybe you can tell him? I mean, I know and I still love you.”

Castiel tapped the tip of his nose with his finger in appreciation before writing. “You’re special.”

“Awww.” She leveled him with her most unrelenting stare. “Isn’t Dean special?” At Castiel’s nod, she said, “So why not trust him?”

“He deserves…”

“You? Any way he can get you?”

Castiel scowled and shrugged one shoulder, admitting defeat. “I deserve to be free.”

“Oh,” Charlie said, the comment neutral enough to draw his attention. Her eyes were wide and something like glee seemed to overtake her features. “You mean…?”

“I want to find the witch that did this to me. And end it.” He grimaced. “Whatever it takes.”

Too much delight sparked in Charlie’s eyes and Castiel, remembering his recent run-in at the bar, worried for her. He should keep her safe, he knew that. But selfishly, he wanted her by his side. He needed her there, cheering him on, helping him unpeel the hidden layers that wrapped around the magical core of the city. With Charlie’s help, he’d find the witch. This time, there would be no delays, no hesitation on Castiel’s part in seeking her out. Then the witch would take back her “blessing” as soon as she realized it had really been a curse.

And then? Well, then he’d go up to Dean and tell him… What could he tell him? With Dean’s general aversion to magic, Castiel didn’t relish telling him that he’d been living with it deep in his lungs for years. He’d say a miracle happened and his speech returned overnight. He’d let himself be studied, safe this time without the curse. It didn’t matter what excuse he might need to employ. His life could finally truly restart.

Charlie pulled her phone from her arm band. “Okay. Well, I know you told me to stop. I know. I _know_!” she said in response to his deep licorice sigh. “But listen. I think I’m close. I found this a few weeks ago.” She sifted through open pages in her browser, finally arriving at a gray message board that looked like it had never left the Nineties. “They’re talking about this witch and I swear to god, it sounds just like the woman who cursed you.”

She wobbled her phone at him and Castiel took it and skimmed through the page. The message board spanned several years, tied to a post someone had originally made about locust migration that had trickled to rumors about plagues of locusts, which had in turn become a discussion of a woman who had cursed someone to spit out grasshoppers when they spoke. The latest entry was from a month ago and it simply read, “I met this chick in Maltese. Super hot. She said grasshoppers guy deserved what he got.” There was a blurry photo of a woman in a dark bar, neon lights a frizz of bright pink in the background.

Castiel squinted at it. “Do we know this place?” His heart began to thud as hope kindled in his veins.

“We’ve never been there,” Charlie said. “But I figured it out. It’s the Throne Room.”

He’d never heard of it. Castiel conveyed as much with a slow shake of his head.

“It’s not a...great part of town.” She grabbed her phone and mapped the location of the bar, before handing it back to Castiel.

He felt himself blanch, then shook his head sharply before handing her phone back and typing, “You’re not going there. Too dangerous.”

“And you’re not going there alone,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “I can take care of myself, Cas. Trust me.” She prodded his knee. “And don’t you even think about going there without me. I’m already working on lining up a contact. Someone who knows about stuff that goes down at the bar.”

Castiel grabbed her hand and held it tightly, trying to convey his worry and gratitude in a single squeeze. She smiled reassuringly, and then her look turned coy.

“I mean, it’s either this or we try plan B.” At his squint she continued with a lilt, “True love’s kiss!”

Castiel rolled his eyes and released her hand emphatically. Charlie laughed at him. “Come on! The internet says it’s real, so it must be true. Just get yourself in one of those rowboats on Gregor Pond in the park there, insert singing frogs, one Dean Winchester and… Bam. Curse lifted.”

Sighing and not bothering to conceal his amusement, Castiel turned his back to her in a side stretch. Turned towards the window, he looked out over the city. Late afternoon sun filtered the buildings beyond into a harvest color wheel. Green leaves framed Maltese like fading emeralds, red, gold, and brown taking their place. Fall slid into the city swiftly and Castiel let himself fantasize for a moment about curling up in front of a winter scene with Dean, talking quietly together as the snow fell and beyond, lights twinkling like stars. He could have that future.

“Let’s do it,” he wrote when he finally turned back to her. “But on my terms, okay? Don’t get hurt because of me.”

Charlie rolled her eyes in the universal expression of, _Okay, mom_. “Deal.”

Castiel wondered sometimes if it was obvious to Dean that his social life was largely limited to brief conversations held over the counter of his food truck. Dean and Charlie had met, at last, which should have been the stuff of nightmares given Charlie’s puppyish excitement to regale Dean with stories about Castiel. It had gone surprisingly well, both Charlie and Dean remarkably well-behaved given their tendency to tease at Castiel’s instinctive shell.

As summer faded away to the heart of autumn, he and Dean slipped into something like a routine. Castiel still worked odd hours at his truck, baking early, cleaning late, and filling much of his time with special events. But now the rest of the time - those quiet solitary, lonely hours he’d had before were now filled with Dean.

Castiel had been surprised, and then embarrassed at his surprise, the first time Dean had referred to him as his boyfriend. They were dating. Properly dating. And Dean still didn’t know about his curse. If Castiel had his way, Dean would never know.

Castiel had insisted to Charlie that they take their time to learn everything possible about the Throne Room bar. It was situated in a part of town well known for dark magic. In a city defined by its simultaneous denial and embrace of magic, that part of Maltese was remarkable for the nearly universal acceptance that if you traveled there unprepared, you would most certainly leave cursed, if you were able to leave at all. They needed to find a contact who frequented the bar, and get some sort of guarantee that they’d be protected there while they waited for the witch to arrive.

They had a plan, Castiel kept assuring himself. They just needed more information before they could reliably act. He was so close to lifting the curse.

“Hey! Earth to Cas?”

Castiel startled in his seat, blinking away from the neon strip lighting that ran along the edge of bowling alley to focus on Dean. He raised his brows questioningly and tried not to let his guilt show on his face.

Dean had an arm slung around Castiel, their thighs pressed against each other on the scooped plastic benches which ringed their lane. He squeezed Castiel, pulling him closer under the shelter of his shoulder. “You okay?” When Castiel haltingly nodded, he continued. “I asked if you wanted to do Thanksgiving with me. Sam and Eileen are hosting this year.” He pulled a dramatically uncertain grimace. “I kinda promised to bring the pie.”

“Oh!” Jody said, swinging down into a seat across from them. “Do you do big pies? I’d love to buy a few for the girls.”

Castiel took a moment to scramble for words and covered by fumbling his tablet. He pointed a finger at Jody first. “Happy to make you pies,” he said to her. This was only the second time they’d met, but she had seemed to absorb Castiel willingly into the extended family she seemed to share with Dean. It felt strange to be wanted - but good - and Castiel was determined to nurture whatever slight friendships his relationship with Dean offered. He glanced up at Dean before writing, “And I’d love to do Thanksgiving with you.” Castiel tried to convey his mix of emotion in his face since the tablet had no modulation. He let his deep affection emerge in his soft smile and gentle touch on Dean’s knee.

Dean grinned and covered Castiel’s hand with his own. “Good,” he said with a gentle squeeze. “You said you always do holidays with Charlie. D’you… Did you want to invite her too?

_You remembered,_ he thought with wonder. They’d spoken about family on one of their first dates, the conversation spinning into darker territory than either of them had probably planned. Castiel had learned a little more about Dean’s unsteady childhood, and Castiel had told him a little bit about his awful run of institutional “therapy” that had culminated in him leaving home. Dean remembered that Charlie was Castiel’s family now, though it hadn’t been mentioned since, and he was astonished at his solicitude.

“Charlie’s busy this year,” Castiel wrote. “So this is perfect.” And it was true. Charlie had told him a few weeks ago that she couldn’t make Thanksgiving and that she would, in fact, be out of the city for most of November. She’d refused to tell Castiel why, and he’d been afraid to pry at it too hard. He knew what it felt like to let a secret loose before it was ready to be shared.

“Awesome,” Dean said, squeezing Castiel’s knee and turning towards him so that his hair brushed across Castiel’s temple. Castiel shivered and leaned into his touch. When would he stop feeling like a sun-deprived plant finally set in a window? “Looking forward to it.”

A golf pencil clattered across their joined hands. Castiel looked up to see Donna, a gregarious friend of Jody’s, standing in front of them with her hands on her hips. “Your turn, sunshine,” she said with a wink.

Castiel dropped his mouth into a rueful _oh_, and reluctantly pulled his hand from Dean. He grimaced an apology and stood, heading for the mouth of their lane.

There was a light swat on his hip. When he turned back towards Dean, his boyfriend winked. “Crush ‘em, babe.”

Castiel made a show of cracking his knuckles as he strode towards the ball return. In reality, he tried and failed to control the giddy butterfly feeling of _belonging_ from suffusing his entire core.

That night, Castiel lay tangled in Dean’s sheets, the warmth of his lover’s limbs like hot bars across his skin, holding him there. Weariness drifted through him, fog-thick and relentless, but Castiel bit his inner lip until he tasted blood, forcing himself to stay awake until he couldn’t resist sleep’s pull anymore. Then, and only then would Castiel permit himself to sleep beside Dean - in the dreamless, voiceless sleep of the utterly exhausted. His throat burned with the phantom effort of holding everything in - his voice, his curse, and his worry over both.

So. He was going to spend a holiday with Dean and his family. It had been ages since he’d done anything more than quiet days spent with Charlie. His own large family holidays felt like a distant story by now, a tale too ridiculously mundane to be completely real.

Castiel slid a hand along the length of Dean’s thigh, tracing the muscle towards his hip bone and sliding his fingers along Dean’s waist. Even in sleep, Dean lit up like a reactive torch, rolling against Castiel’s touch and murmuring at slow intervals. He had transformed Castiel’s day to day life into something more...alive. Like wind sending a still meadow into a wild dance.

_Thanksgiving is barely a month away_, Castiel mused. What if he defeated the curse by then? He pictured it: talking and laughing freely, no tablets by his side, no conversational lulls as he wrote and executed each line into speech. What if he could be _free_?

As Castiel held onto Dean, clinging to wakefulness, he resolved to act at last.

The following week, Castiel and Charlie walked into the Throne Room for the first time. It reminded Castiel of the bar he’d been kicked out of; there were sigils painted on the wall and the room had an iron smell to it that reminded him uncomfortably of blood.

Charlie clutched her phone in her hand; it held the name of someone who had agreed to meet them. This Crowley person was the only one they’d found who seemed willing to even talk about the witch. Though he’d insisted on meeting at the bar, refusing their requests to meet somewhere neutral and normal, like a coffee shop. It should have scared them off, but Castiel was determined this time and Charlie doggedly refused to abandon him to tilt at windmills alone.

Castiel hesitated just inside the door as his eyes adjusted to the light. He surveyed the long, dark bar.

“Pretty empty,” Charlie murmured quietly. Castiel nodded. The sparsely populated bar didn’t make him feel any better. If anything, it felt more foreboding, like anything could happen to them now with few witnesses.

A very tall woman wearing a steel gray suit stood up from a bar stool she’d occupied near the middle of the bar, her crimson silk shirt catching the light. She was neatly dressed for such a seedy establishment, like she’d been called away from a corporate meeting to come here. She smiled at them, crossing her arms and planting her feet. There was no warmth in her smile. “Can I help you?” she asked cooly, voice carrying across the bar. Her look, while utterly incongruous with the biker-goth bar, was of a pointed blade.

“We’re here to see Crowley,” Charlie said, her statement ticking up into an uncertain, questioning inflection at the end. She sounded small, and Castiel swallowed and wondered if he should haul them out of here now, or if they’d already gone too far by entering the Throne Room.

The woman quirked the corner of her lip, gave them both a once-over, and then stepped aside and gestured towards the back of the bar with a grand flourish. Two similarly arrayed individuals were seated at the end of the bar, now visible in the far shadows. Neither had drinks, and one blatantly rested his palm on a bulge in his jacket that Castiel imagined must be a gun.

Charlie started forward, apparently more confident with their odds than Castiel felt. Castiel swallowed and followed her back to the dark, high-backed booth the tall woman had indicated.

In the booth, a surprisingly cheerful man sat sipping at a ridiculously ornate drink. He grinned as they approached and settled back into the bench seat like a king relaxing into his throne. “So,” he said with a sharp smile, “what brings you here to my place of business?” He gestured for them to sit.

“Crowley?” Charlie asked.

“The one and only,” Crowley said with a shark grin. “Please. Sit.”

Charlie once again led the way, sliding into the booth opposite Crowley. Castiel settled next to her, grim imagination settling over him. He shouldn’t have brought her here. He was an absolute fool for allowing this. Faced with this frighteningly cheerful man, all he could focus on was how to get Charlie out of the bar without falling prey to whatever dark forces frequented the bar. She was his family - his _only_ family in many ways. If she got hurt, he’d never forgive himself.

Castiel slid close to Charlie, their arms pressing together for comfort. He could feel worry radiating from her. She sat, a statue of tension. “It’s just what I said in my DM. We need to break a curse,” she said. “And we’re looking for somebody. A particular witch. You said you might know who she is, or where we can find her.”

Crowley sipped his drink. “Ah. Yes.” He looked between the two of them and then shifted to sit angled towards Castiel, his gaze piercing. “And what is the nature of the curse?” he purred. A slow smile lit his features.

“That’s personal,” Charlie said sharply. “Do you know where to find her or not?”

Crowley laughed and then gestured to the grim-suited people at the bar. “Did you know,” he said casually, “that the pain of an electronic stun weapon is absolutely debilitating? You shout, you scream. Some people lose bladder control. It’s quite messy, particularly when used at length. Imagine what that must look like.” He flicked a glance at Charlie before staring at Castiel. There was shadowed deadly meaning behind it. “I don’t waste my time on people who keep information from me. You’re looking to break a curse. Tell me about it. All about it. And straight from that pretty mouth of yours.” He pointed at Castiel.

Castiel’s mouth twisted in distaste while Charlie shifted beside him - ready to fight or fly, he wasn’t sure. He laid a hand on her arm in warning and then nodded slowly. He tapped the breast pocket of his coat which held his tablet and raised his brows, glancing between Crowley and the three at the bar. Crowley held up his hand, staying any action from his stooges, and then gestured to Castiel broadly to pull open his coat.

Slowly, Castiel reached inside and pulled out his tablet, laying it on the table in front of him. “A witch cursed me years ago,” he wrote and when Crowley waited, eyebrows raised pointedly, he continued. “I can’t speak without... Problems.”

“Problems?” Crowley crossed his arms and leaned back.

“I’ve been looking for her. I need her to remove the curse.”

“Problems?” Crowley asked again, with an edge this time.

Castiel barely managed to contain a frustrated eye roll. He’d spent so long hiding his secret, the thought of exposure blocked his throat. He looked down at his tablet, then back up at Crowley. Crowley met his gaze then slowly, meaningfully, turned to look at Charlie.

Castiel cleared his throat, the sound erupting like sandpaper on steel in the terribly quiet booth. It appeared that he had little choice. And if he was to have any chance of finding the witch, this was their one good lead in years. With trepidation, he spoke. “Pies appear when I speak.” A hard, over-caramelized pecan pie fell from his lips. Castiel caught it out of long practice and set it in the middle of the table. He didn’t know what he was expecting. Shock? Confusion?

Instead, Crowley threw his head back and laughed. “Creative. I’ll give her that.” He picked up the little pecan pie, raised his brow questioningly, and when Castiel nodded he took a bite. He chewed it, made a face, then put it back on the table. “Pies. And not particularly good ones,” he said like he was identifying a character flaw. “Well. That is a new one.”

“We hear you can find anyone,” Castiel went back to writing, feeling like a little careful flattery wouldn’t go amiss in the face of Crowley’s apparent delight in his curse.

At that, Crowley brightened like a pleased child. “That is true,” Crowley crowed. “I am rather adept at it. But this one. This...witch. Dark hair, gorgeous, totally abso-fucking-clueless?”

Castiel nodded vigorously.

“She does come here from time to time. Haven’t seen her lately,” Crowley said quickly and held up a forestalling finger. “But I do think I could make a deal with you to locate your witchy friend.”

“How much?” Charlie asked sharply. “How much will it cost to find her?”

“How much will it cost?” Crowley said, seeming to relish the word. “Not as much money as you might think. My services can be...highly affordable.” He fished easily into his own suit jacket pocket and pulled out a black, embossed business card. “I’ll find her. Come back in three days, same time. And then...we’ll talk price.” He finished the conversation with another toothy smile and shooed them from the booth with a quick hand.

Castiel and Charlie shuffled from the bench seat and made their way out into the sunshine. Charlie shuddered. “I’m never gonna get the stink of that bar off me,” she complained. After a beat, she said, “But don’t think I’m sitting this out. I’m here all the way, okay? I’m coming back with you.”

Castiel sighed, then nodded. Dread filled him and nearly drowned out the bright hope he’d been nursing along. Crowley reminded him viscerally of some of the executives at his parents’ company: ruthless and relentless. And nothing was ever offered freely. He wondered what he would be made to pay, and if he could ever afford it.


	5. Thanksgiving Pies

On the third day, Castiel took the day off. He left his truck parked at the Comm and canceled his scheduled appearance for the lunch crowd at Bagly Park. He hauled himself out of bed early, unable to sleep, and spent the day trying to distract himself by cleaning out cupboards, emptying and scrubbing them. Several times, he’d end up staring into space, a sponge half-drying in his hand.

_Today I might be free,_ he thought while his heart tried to flee his body. He would be able to talk whenever he wanted. Sing in the shower without clogging the drain. He’d be able to take Dean’s hands in his own and tell him how he felt in his own voice. He would be free to love and be loved by somebody like Dean. There was so much to gain, it was hard to imagine what he’d have to lose.

Charlie met him outside of the double locked doors of his apartment building. She was dressed in sunshine yellow, like a harbinger of good things to come. She reached out and tweaked his collar into place. “You nervous?” she asked. Castiel swallowed hard and Charlie nodded. “Me too. But it’ll be fine. We got this.” Castiel closed his eyes under her touch and hoped she was right.

She drove them to the bar and parked on the curbside. The road hosting the Throne Room felt ominously empty to Castiel, like a cleared street in a western just before a shootout.

Inside, the bar felt just as grim as earlier in the week. Shadows fell across the windows at the entrance, not cast by anything in particular but simply as though light didn’t feel like touching the surfaces there. A different set of lackeys loitered at the end of the bar and stared at them intensely as they approached.

Crowley lounged in the far booth as though he’d never left. He leaned forward, both elbows on the table, and sipped a whiskey with a bored look on his face. He brightened when he saw Castiel, and his palpable joy made Castiel even more nervous, hope crumbling like pie crust.

Charlie seemed to pick up on it too, because she didn’t bother to sit down before demanding, “Did you find her?” Her tone clearly indicated disbelief in whatever assurances Crowley might deliver.

Crowley smiled in seeming confidence. “No,” he said simply.

Charlie’s hands clenched at her sides and Castiel felt disappointment fall to his gut.

“I didn’t find her,” Crowley said. He looked briefly frustrated. “She’s an elusive little minx, I’ll tell you that much. But--” he said as Castiel began to turn away, hooking his hand against Charlie’s elbow, focused only on getting themselves safely out of the bar.

Charlie pulled against Castiel, anchoring him at the table. Begrudgingly, he turned fully to the booth again. He didn’t want to listen to the man - didn’t trust him for even an inch. But he was a desperate man and Crowley, damn him, seemed to know it.

Crowley stared at Castiel and only at Castiel. He let silence stretch between them like taffy. When he finally spoke, it was with quiet control and a not-quite-disguised lilt of glee. “Who says that dumb witch is the only one with a little magic up her sleeve?” He smirked at Castiel, then tweaked at the cuff of his jacket demonstratively.

Castiel raised his brow. _Meaning_? he wondered.

“I can help you talk again,” Crowley said. “For a price, of course. I am a businessman after all.”

“You know what? We’re good.” It was Charlie’s turn to tug at Castiel’s arm but Castiel held fast, fixed in place and wanting to hear Crowley’s offer, at least.

“He doesn’t have much,” Charlie said, a note of panic in her voice. “Neither do I. We’re just little fish, big pond, you know?”

“Well, I have always had a fondness for a guppy,” Crowley said with a wide smile. “I’ve been looking into you, _Castiel_.”

Castiel jolted. _How does he know my name? _Charlie had told him that she’d carefully kept their identities secret, veiled beneath vague usernames and shadow accounts.

Crowley’s eyes gleamed, guessing his question. “A magician never reveals his secrets.” He chuckled. In the corner, one of the suited lackeys leaned in to whisper to the other and they both laughed.

Castiel glanced at them, then leveled a look at Crowley. He pulled out his tablet and swiftly wrote, “You had me followed.”

“Oh, give the boy a gold star,” Crowley said. “I _have _been looking into you. I always like to do a bit of research on my investments. You’re an interesting one for a guy who doesn’t talk. And you’re right. A piddly little pie maker won’t have much money. But I can get something far more interesting from you. And it won’t cost you a dime.”

“What do you mean?”

“You happen to know somebody that I would like to know better.” He rested his chin on his hand and smiled up through his eyelashes. “One Dean Winchester, FutureTech lackey.”

Ice settled into Castiel’s gut. This was it, then. His entire world crumbled to pieces from another foolish mistake. Of course Crowley’s price would turn out to be Dean. Nothing could ever just be _easy_. He shook his head sharply, a stormcloud growing on his face, and Crowley held up both hands.

“Whoa, whoa. Calm down. I see I’ve touched a nerve.” He smirked. “Relax. Your little engineer doesn’t have to come to me. Hell, he doesn’t even need to know I exist. FutureTech’s a gold mine of delicious, developing technology. And his little pet project? Oh, I know all about it. Talking without saying a word? Mind reading? _Actual _mind reading without all that woo woo magic and dark oaths to demons blah blah blah.” He wrinkled his nose. “Such a pain. You have no idea how valuable that is. The ability to mimic anyone’s voice. The ability to read the words in somebody’s mind? Mmm delicious.”

“You want the Lyrebird project?”

“On a flash drive, tidy as you please.” Crowley pulled out a flash drive and set it on the table with a clack.

“No. No deal.”

“Oh come now. Companies steal from each other all the time. And you have a higher mission.”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie asked. “What’s that?”

Crowley winked. “Oh, will you make me say it? How crass.”

Castiel growled - actually growled - and it tasted like earth and blood behind his teeth.

“Please. It won’t even be traced to him. Or you! I wouldn’t want to draw attention to myself, after all. I have just as much to lose in this as you if this little heist fails. Just get in there, get this in a drive, and five minutes later, out you go. Bring it to me and... _Hello, voice_!” he splayed his hands out theatrically. “What do you say?”

Castiel found that he was shaking and he balled his hands into fists. “Fuck you,” he said out loud, the words coming out harsh and angular, just like the burned pie that flowered into existence and crashed to the floor. Fumbling for Charlie’s hand, he pulled her towards the door. He was relieved to see that nobody followed them out.

Once outside, he realized that he was shaking. So Crowley knew who he was. He knew about Dean. Hell, he probably knew more about Charlie than Castiel himself did. It was like Castiel had tried to escape a serpent by hiding in a cave, only to find himself face to face with a murderous bear. Worry shivered over his skin and burned pastry lingered on his tongue.

He’d been selfish, Castiel could see that clearly now. He had been focused on freeing himself from the curse for so long that he had forgotten what could happen when people intersected with magic. The upshot of it was, nothing good _ever_ happened when magic was involved.

“Cas,” Charlie said gently as they got into her car, the doors closing with a solid thunk around them.

Castiel held up a hand and sighed. Bitterness flooded his tongue. “I’m sorry,” he said, a flat, tart pie falling from his lips. He set it on the seat between them.

Charlie grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Hey, we just walk away, okay? It’ll be fine. We didn’t make any kind of deal. So, he knows who you are. So what? The guy’s just a bunch of empty threats. We’ll find another way, Cas.” As they drove away, Castiel tried to make himself believe that was true.

That night Castiel sent a text to Dean.

> _Castiel: _Can’t make it to Thanksgiving after all.
> 
> _Dean_: What? Why?
> 
> _Castiel_: That week filled up. I can’t get away.
> 
> _Dean_: Dude. You said you never get customers around holidays. You’re not working are you?
> 
> _Dean_: Also Sam’s only like an hour away. You can get back in plenty of time. Don’t even need to stay the night if you don’t want to?

Castiel stared at his phone, mind stalling on what he could say. He needed to keep some distance, right? Who knew if Crowley was still looking into his life or how far he would go to get what he wanted? He might try to blackmail Castiel. For the hundredth time, Castiel cursed himself for ever revealing his secret. In fact, he should have left town as soon as Charlie had uncovered it. It was just safer that way for everyone.

His phone buzzed.

> _Dean_: I’m coming over.
> 
> _Castiel_: I’m already in bed. Sorry, long day.
> 
> _Dean_: Even better ;)

Castiel drooped, and dropped his phone before clutching his hair. He was still sitting there, mind scrambling for an exit strategy, when Dean texted that he was downstairs. Castiel sighed, ground his forehead into his knees.

The buzzer sounded once. Twice.

Castiel dragged himself from the couch, crossed the room, and buzzed Dean into the building.

Dean blew in like a sweet breeze, tugging Castiel in for a kiss. Castiel wrapped one hand around his collar and the other at his waist and returned his kiss like this might be the last time. When Dean pulled away long enough to shut the door, it was with starry eyes and a wicked smile. “Now,” he said without preamble. “What’s up with the sudden, ‘never mind, not coming?’ I promise you, Sam hasn’t bitten anyone since he was four.” He slipped a hand around Castiel’s waist, teasing skillful fingers towards the hem of his shirt.

Castiel caught his hand and squeezed it once. _I love this, but not now. _He pulled Dean towards the couch.

Dean’s expression morphed from teasing to concern. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

Castiel pulled his tablet to his knee and hesitated over it for a moment, thinking. _I’m worried that a magical crime lord might be targeting you._ No, too dramatic. “I don’t want to be a third wheel.”

Dean goggled at him. “First of all, you’d be a fifth wheel, counting my nephew. Second, you’re my boyfriend, Cas. Have I ever said anything that made you feel like you wouldn’t be welcome?” He looked hurt, and Castiel shook his head. “Then come with me. I want you there.”

Castiel heaved a long breath and looked away, torn and utterly without a good excuse. He could say Charlie needed his help with something, although Dean knew Charlie was gone for the next three weeks. Castiel would have to become a hermit to keep up the pretense that he’d gone with her, and that seemed exhausting. Dean curled his hand over Castiel’s thigh, thumb running soothingly along the outer seam of his jeans. “Hey,” he said, gently. “I know you don’t like to talk about family. And holidays are hard. I get that. But maybe it’s time to start some new family traditions. Better ones. I’ll even make sure we keep a lid on the prank wars this year.” Dean stared at him, fingers tightening. “Please? Come with me?”

Castiel swallowed hard. He should cut ties and run, but for once, not every instinct in him advocated this position. What if he stayed? What if Crowley left them all alone? What if he just...lived his life just like this? No toe out of line, kept his head down, and enjoyed the treasures he’d somehow managed to find?

The longer Castiel stayed silent, the more shuttered Dean’s expression became. He hadn’t talked much about his family life since that day at the Market, but Castiel knew it began and ended these days with his brother Sam. He’d thought that Dean would be fine without him there, bolstered by his relationship with his brother. But he knew him well enough now to see that his sudden refusal to join the family outing was a blow to his ego at the very least. When Dean dropped his eyes, Castiel broke. Whatever the reason, Dean wanted him there. Badly. That much was obvious.

Finally, Castiel nodded. And then he nodded some more and slid the tablet back to the table before wrapping his fingers in the soft cotton of Dean’s shirt and settling his wrists against him, pushing Dean into the cushions. He was tired of fretting over words like any one wrongly dropped might trigger a bomb blast. Since Dean was here and already melting backward under Castiel’s touch, it was time to make the most of what he had. What he had was a hot boyfriend, and a date for Thanksgiving.

They surged together like mingling tides. Castiel left both unspoken regrets and reassurances in a blazing trail across Dean’s skin. And the next morning while they lay tangled in Castiel’s bed, they talked about light things. Parties and nephews and the perfect flavor of pie to impress a sister-in-law.

_If Crowley comes sniffing… If I see any of his hired guns I’ll cancel for sure. _He could pretend to be sick at the last minute. He could...he could break up with Dean, if he really had to. If it was necessary to protect him.

He could.

Arriving at Sam Winchester’s house on Thanksgiving felt like a slice of someone else’s life. Sam and Eileen welcomed him into their home with all the aplomb of greeting long-lost family, helping him to juggle the three pies he’d brought above an over-excited dog and their child, Avery. They made an odd crew: a small child, an excited dog, two mostly silent adults, and Sam Winchester towering over them all and bellowing a conversation back and forth with his brother to “Move all your sh--. I mean, stuff, Dean. Make some room on the counter!”

Dean greeted him in the kitchen with a kiss, a streak of flour curling in the hair over his ear. “You’re late,” Dean whispered as they drew away, but he winked to soften the accusation. He waved a hand at the bar-height counter jutting from the wall and dividing the kitchen from a large, oval dining table. “Pies go there.”

Castiel grimaced in apology as he placed the pie he carried onto the counter. He’d used baking the pies for the Winchesters and Jody as an excuse to travel separately to Sam and Eileen’s house. On the other hand, Dean had spent the night, the better to spend the morning doing most of the cooking. But Castiel had needed space and time to prepare himself. He’d met Sam once before when Dean had brought him by Honey Pies, and the man had seemed nice. But it was an altogether different thing to overnight at somebody’s home. Castiel, despite the increasing amount of time he spent with Dean, still worried about slipping up and letting his secret be known.

It had been weeks since Crowley’s proposal and Castiel hadn’t heard a thing from him. Nor had Charlie, based on the infrequent updates she sent his way. In the bright, fragrant Winchester home, the veiled threats in the Throne Room seemed like a distant nightmare. He made himself smile around at the busy, warm home. _Relax,_ he instructed himself sternly.

He turned to the counter and began to unbox the pies, rolling his eyes as Dean crowded over his shoulder to take a look. “What’d you make?” Dean asked eagerly, slipping one distracting hand to settle on Castiel’s hip. His breath tickled his ear and Castiel felt himself warm from the attention. He ought to be past this, accustomed to Dean’s easy affection. It still completely engulfed him.

Castiel pulled open the first container. The first pie was a carefully latticed mix berry. He’d taken extra time to sculpt leaves and twining grapes around the edge of the pie. The fruit had bubbled perfectly, staining the edge of the crust but leaving most of it a rich gold. Castiel smiled as he pulled the pie out and set it on the counter with a little flourish before moving away to let Dean admire his work.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Dean murmured in his ear.

Castiel leaned his cheek against Dean in silent acknowledgment of his compliment, warmed by it. This was why he baked. It was so incredibly gratifying to see creations he’d made with his own hands enjoyed by other people. If happiness could be derived, even a small amount, from food then Castiel was glad to contribute just that little bit more to the world.

He used to resent his curse for so easily crafting something that otherwise took hours, like making the perfect pastry and filling was nothing - a fruitless exercise. Lately, he’d come to appreciate the differences of craft. Speaking pies into existence was less about creating food and more about...emotion. It was why he recited poetry for many of his magical pies. The words created a heady mix of feelings in him, and his curse translated those feelings into an edible journey for people visiting his truck. Sometimes he thought he could see those emotions play across the faces of people who ate his magical pies, like the pies were merely a transfer medium serving poetry via pie.

When he mixed dough and rolled out the perfect pastry, it became a different form of art - more sculptural and blissfully wordless. Handmade pies only sent one message: _enjoy me_. Achieving a technically perfect pie, or coming up with a gorgeous new recipe gave Castiel the kind of high that can only come from hard work and the slower path to perfection.

“I’d complain that you’re trying to show me up,” Dean said as he helped unbox the next pie - a more traditional pumpkin with cleanly constructed pastry oak leaves. “But I knew what I was getting into.”

Castiel slipped his arm around Dean and planted a kiss on his cheek before pulling out his tablet. “Not a competition,” he wrote.

Dean snorted. “Says you.”

Eileen leaned across the counter and flicked Dean on the shoulder. “These smell amazing,” she said appreciatively to Castiel. She craned her neck to read Castiel’s tablet. His mouth dropped open in dismay. Between Sam’s boisterous shouting and Dean’s rumpled kitchen greeting, Castiel had forgotten to include Eileen in the conversation. He knew she read lips, but with the tablet he hadn’t any need for mouthing the words and--

Eileen looked up from his screen and saw his expression, then smiled at him. She gestured at the pies. “I can see why Dean keeps you around,” she said. “It _is_ a competition, by the way. Someone’s got to take Dean down a notch. We’re hosting. _He_ insists on cooking.”

Castiel rolled his eyes at Dean’s indignant gasp and this time he mouthed a clear, _thank you _to Eileen as he typed.

“Least I can do.” Dean moved to lean on the counter next to Castiel. His hands traced the words quickly. “One of these days we’ll teach Sammy to cook.”

“I can cook,” Sam insisted. He flicked a middle finger at Dean.

“You can cook macaroni and cheese from a box and that’s it.”

“He would never,” Eileen interjected, slicing through the air with a decisive hand.

“Right. Remember your raw food kick? I pity you, Eileen. Deeply.” Dean slid a finger towards the berry pie, only to have it swatted away by Castiel. He laughed. “It is kinda dangerous to date a baker,” Dean said, patting his stomach. “But nice.” Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean’s shit-eating grin. “But _nice_, I said.”

Next to Eileen, Sam translated this into swift sign language. Castiel got the strong impression that considerably more was conveyed than a direct translation. He vowed to learn more ASL before next Thanksgiving. Or, even sooner. Could he learn enough to get by in time for New Years? He froze at that thought, astonished and a little rattled to realize that he was actually beginning to count on a future which included Dean. His heart beat faster; excitement or nerves, he couldn’t tell which.

“You fed me marshmallow fluff pasta for two years, Dean. Scarred me for life.”

“Okay, whatever salad boy.” Dean reached across and flicked Sam’s ear, so much like an eight year old boy that Castiel stepped backwards and out of the line of fire. “You loved it.”

“Dude, I was eight!”

“And so much smarter then,” Dean said, in faux-wistful tones.

Sam snorted. “You know you had him at pie, Cas,” Sam said in a faux breathless tone, signs flying between himself and Eileen, whose eyes sparkled with mirth at some hidden joke.

Castiel snatched his tablet and contributed, “Is our relationship based on pie? I’ve yet to try a pie he hasn’t liked.”

“All pies are good. It’s the law of pies.” Dean flew his hands up and retreated to the kitchen island and the casserole he’d been preparing there.

Sam laughed. “Dude, not all pies. Don’t you remember the time you tried to make mom’s pie in...what was that place?”

Dean grabbed a fistful of Castiel’s shirt, hauling him back to join him in the center of the kitchen. He handed him a knife and a bundle of celery, silently conscripting him into cooking. Castiel happily following suit. “The Sleep Rite Inn,” Dean pronounced, finely chopping rosemary. “And that was because I tried making it in a toaster oven. A whole, full size pie,” Dean said to Castiel. “Like, the entire size of this tiny ass toaster oven.”

“It was chewy,” Sam supplied.

Dean shuddered. “Yeah. Completely raw, or most of it was, anyway.”

“Your mom’s pie?” Eileen asked curiously, volleying between them during the conversation.

Dean closed his eyes in bliss. “Apple. With ginger in it, ‘cause she didn’t have cinnamon. And little squares of American cheese melted on top.”

Castiel wrinkled his nose, trying to picture the flavor. Dean laughed at him and knocked a fingertip across the tip of his nose, leaving a streak of rosemary scent there. “You know how you eat something when you’re young and it’s just the best? That was the height of gourmet for me, man. Cheese on pie. It was revolutionary.”

Sam shook his head. “You were four. You didn’t know any better.”

“She made it again just before she-- Anyway, she was a terrible cook,” Dean said fondly. “But when Sam says the copycat pie I made was awful, you have no idea just how bad it was.”

“In addition to raw...” Sam held out his hand and ticked down fingers one by one. “The one you tried to feed me had no sugar. Super juicy, mushy crust. Crunchy apples. And I think the cheese was bad.”

“That kind of cheese doesn’t go bad,” Dean argued and Castiel got the sudden sense that he had wandered into the middle of a very old argument. Dean paused in his casserole assembly to glare at his brother. “Anyway,” he continued in much milder tones. “Cas, no offense, but my mom’s pie will probably always be my favorite. Not great, not awful, but my favorite anyway. We always used to sit out on the porch in the summer and eat it and, you know, that cheese would be flaking off everywhere. It was awesome. The last time she’d made it was for a party she and dad were going to.” Dean began slicing mushrooms, methodically, and his voice dropped to encompass only Castiel. “I got scared. There’d been thunderstorms all afternoon, I think. She made this huge blanket fort out of sheets. We got every pillow from all over the house. Beds, couches, you name it. And then they canceled their plans and we all sat under there eating out of the pie plate with our forks, Sam passed out in dad’s arms.”

Castiel’s fingers were messy, but instead of wiping them clean and typing, he pressed his hand to Dean’s, sliding his fingers along the taut tendons until Dean stopped slicing mushrooms. They stood there for what must have surely been a handful of breaths. Castiel tightened his grip. Touching Dean had a way of stretching moments into distracted spans of forever.

Avery toddled in, pursued by Eileen, and the spell broke.

Castiel helped Sam to set the table, enjoying being caught in the tides of gentle ribbing that passed for brotherly affection in the Winchester household. He’d come from a large family and holidays had always been a whir of activity. With a child and a dog, plus four adults in a small home, Sam’s house had a certain amount of frenetic energy to it. But it didn’t feel like home to Castiel. Not the home he was used to anyway. It was _better_.

Dinner was long and seemingly luxurious, even though it was interrupted by diaper changes, launched toddler food, and restless laps around the table. Afterwards, Castiel found himself shunted into the living room with Avery, who didn’t seem to mind that he didn’t speak as long as Castiel never tired from setting up tall block towers that he could knock down. After Avery went to bed, cocktails were poured and a fire kindled in the fireplace. They passed the evening getting fuzzy on liquor, talk dwindling like the battery in Castiel’s tablet, until Dean slumped to rest on his shoulder.

Castiel leaned his cheek against the top of Dean’s head in a silent mark of affection and Dean hummed happily.

Eileen smiled at them, and then yawned widely. “You’re staying the night, right?” Dean nodded against his shoulder, thumb flying upward, and Castiel belatedly echoed it. He hadn’t been planning on it, exactly, but weeks of occasional nights at Dean’s apartment had trained him to keep an overnight bag ready. “Need me to show you the guest room?”

“Nah,” Dean rumbled. “I can do it. You two crazy kids go to bed.”

Sam laughed and rubbed at the circles under his eyes. “Yeah. I’m bushed. Cas,” he said. “Great to have you here. Dean, you’re making breakfast.”

“As if I’d allow anything else,” Dean said with a laugh. He hauled himself up, then extended a hand for Castiel. Together, they made their way to the guest room.

Once inside, Dean woke enough to pull Castiel close. “I’m glad you came,” he said quietly, leaning in to dust a tired kiss across his lips. “Wouldn’t have been the same without you.”

Castiel brushed his thumbs along Dean’s jawline, marveling at his heavy-lidded boyfriend. _I feel the same way. _He leaned into Dean, leaned into the kiss, and turned it into something heavier. Deeper. Sometimes words weren’t necessary.

“‘M ready to pass out,” Dean complained when he drew away at last. “Shouldn’t have gone for all three kinds of pie.” Castiel smirked and waggled a finger. “Yeah, yeah.” He turned and grabbed Castiel’s bag from the bed and thrust it at him. “Told Sam to grab it from your rental,” he explained. “Glad you came tonight. And I’m glad you stayed. You never really said you would and I-- Anyway. Thanks.”

Even if he could speak, there was no response Castiel could muster to that. He drew Dean into his arms and held him tightly, closing his eyes to revel in their proximity. He had been reticent about promising to stay, that was true. But now he’d done it - he’d managed an entire family get-together. He felt warm and welcome and...happy.

Held close in Dean’s embrace that night, he fell asleep swiftly.

He didn’t sleep deeply.

Castiel woke in the middle of the night with plum on his tongue, stirring from some vague dream about skin and soft touches. His nose flared in the darkness. He could smell the pie. Taste the pie.

Lips pressed together, Castiel fumbled in the covers between himself and Dean until he found it, a small sticky-sweet pie, only slightly crushed. Castiel rolled back against his pillow while Dean slept on and closed his eyes. _I shouldn’t have fallen asleep right away. Damn. _A long, slow frustrated exhalation was his only outlet. He lay there for a moment, holding the incriminating pie, before he got out of bed.

Careful not to disturb Dean, Castiel pulled on his jeans and a sweatshirt, pinching a little pie filling from his t-shirt hem as he slipped out of the room.

The house was quiet. Sam and Eileen had decided to keep the dog in their room “because otherwise you’re gonna get licked.” Castiel shuffled down the hallway towards the kitchen, crushed pie in hand. He’d bury it in the kitchen trash. Problem solved.

He felt restless, itchy from the curse bubbling under his tongue. In the kitchen, he threw the pie away, then poured himself a glass of water. Castiel settled at the counter to drink it and calm down his rabbit panic. _But Dean’s still asleep. The pie’s in the trash. Nobody knows. Nobody found out. _

An empty pie plate sat on the counter, cleaned and polished for Castiel to bring home with him. He’d leave the other two with Sam and Eileen. It made him inexplicably happy to think that they could return the plates to him later - that there would _be_ a later. Of course, Dean might follow through on his sleepy threat to just have them eat leftover pie for breakfast, in which case he might bring three empty pie plates home after all.

Castiel smiled and fiddled with the apples stacked in a bowl on the countertop, arranging them into a neat stack. He was starting to understand Dean’s obsession with pie, if that conversation about their mother earlier was any indication. Pie, for Dean, seemed to indicate home. How lucky for Castiel that he traded in that commodity, otherwise he might have never attracted Dean’s attention. For the first time in a very long time, his curse felt like it might be a gift, since it had brought him Dean.

And what a pie it was, to capture Dean’s love and loyalty for so many years! To be honest, it sounded like a miserably bad pie, with too-chewy apples and seasoned with cheap cheese. But reality had absolutely nothing to do with how good something was in memory. And it was Dean’s memory of it that mattered here… Flavor gathered on the tip of his tongue as he recreated their conversation in his mind.

_A sweet apple-ginger pie with a cheddar crust, and built with love. _Castiel closed his eyes and thought about the flavor of it and how the words might build on his tongue - how the words would taste to build that pie. It would be a deceptively simple concept, like a summer farm field, warm and sunny and inviting and yet wonderfully complex - just like Dean. Sometimes when he made a pie by magic, he imagined that he could see inside the person he was making the pie for and tailor it just to them. Castiel felt that way now, like he could reach into Dean’s fondest memory and pull out only the perfection that remained.

Castiel caught on to the memory, and then the pie, snaring it in his mind like a fish in a net. Heart pounding with excitement this time, he slid off the bar stool and quietly checked through the cabinets and refrigerator. In addition to the apples on the counter, they had everything he needed to make a pie traditionally, except the American cheese. But a block of yellow cheddar with part of it cut away would surely be cover enough for what he was about to do. What a surprise he could give them! A pie à la Mary Winchester, built with the memory that lived on in her boys. He’d make a few as gifts. Such a pie seemed, in the early exhausted hours of the morning, to be the perfect token of gratitude.

Castiel stood at the kitchen island and closed his eyes. He spoke quietly, carefully in the quiet kitchen, hands outstretched to catch his creations.

Wholly focused on his task, the clunk of a heavy object hitting the floor just a few feet away made Castiel yelp. The last pie fell into his hands, a third of it mashed into a disgusting mass of cheese and apple.

Castiel held the mangled pie in his hands and blinked at Dean in the dim glow cast by a small seashell night light plugged into the wall. Dean stared back at him, then leaned down to pick up his dropped phone. Slowly he raised it, the tiny flashlight beam illuminating the pie in Castiel’s hands. Castiel dropped it to the counter.

“Cas?” Dean asked, voice thick with confusion. He leaned over and slapped at the light switch. They both winced at the sudden light. Dean rubbed his eyes. “That just...appeared. Out of nowhere. How did it just appear?”

Castiel hid his hands below the counter like a guilty schoolboy. His tablet was on a charger in their room. He shook his head as Dean approached.

Dean picked up the pie. It was still warm with magic and would be for hours but the oven was clearly off. No ingredients were out. Castiel watched Dean survey the state of the kitchen and then look back at the pie. “Apple with cheese,” he murmured. “Cas, what the hell is this? Is this--? Did you just--?”

So, this was it. He’d either lose him, or it would be okay. _Please let it be okay._ Castiel took a deep breath against the bands tightening across his chest. “There’s something you don’t know about me,” he said. It was hard to tell from Dean’s expression what surprised him more: hearing Castiel speak or seeing the shallow pie appear from out of nowhere. Castiel caught it in his hand and set it on the counter next to the completed apple pies.

Castiel watched Dean track the pie from his lips to the counter, and so he saw the exact moment his relationship with Dean died. A shadow passed over Dean, brows knitting. Dean’s voice dropped low as he asked, “Is this magic? Are you a...a witch?”

“Not a witch,” Castiel said and a pie fell unhelpfully to the countertop.

“_All _those pies, even after you knew how I felt and--”

“I can explain,” Castiel said quickly and a squat pie with flat unsweetened mashed prunes fell onto the floor. They both looked down at it. The crust had splattered into a purple stain against the pale tile. When Castiel looked up again, Dean grimaced and clutched the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re...angry?”

Dean’s eyes flashed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fucking angry. You knew how I felt and you gave that...you gave that to me. To my _family_.”

“No, I--”

But Castiel’s protestations were cut off by Dean taking a step backward. He splayed out his hands when Castiel tried to approach. “I need a minute,” Dean said, gasping like he’d been running.

Castiel fumbled for a reason - any reason he could give Dean for his curse, for the pies. _Any_ words. His tablet was charging in the bedroom and anything he might say right now would be marked by magic. Magic that Dean abhorred. He stared at Dean for a moment and a sense of fatalism settled over him like a deep, dark cloak. The kitchen closed in on him. Castiel swallowed, shook his head, and patted his jeans. _Good_. Car keys. Phone. Wallet. No further words needed to be said. They could mail him back his clothing, his tablet. It didn’t matter. All that mattered at the moment was his body screaming at him to run. _Run_! So that’s what Castiel did.

He let instinct carry him out of the kitchen and to the door. Castiel grabbed his coat from the hook and slung it on. Grabbed his shoes and held them in his hand as he swung open the door. He was in the driver’s seat of his rental before he half understood what he was doing. Castiel set his finger against the ignition button and stared for a moment at the Winchester’s front door. Maybe Dean would come rushing out after him. Plead for him to stay. Let him explain.

The front door didn’t open.

Castiel started the car and peeled out of the driveway with a shriek of tires. His mouth still tasted apple-sweet as he drove away.


	6. Trust is a Pie Crust

When Castiel got back to his apartment, he locked the door behind him with shaking fingers, then pulled out his phone. He’d hoped that Dean might have called him or at least sent him a text in the hour it took to drive from Sam’s home back to the city. But his screen was unblemished with notifications. Stomach churning, he pulled up his messenger app. Maybe Dean had sent him a message but Castiel had somehow missed it? But again, no. The last message on there was a thumbs up emoji, Dean’s response to Castiel telling him he was heading his way.

Castiel deflated against the wall. His thumb danced above the screen. Should he write to him? Apologize? _How can I make this right?_ Castiel wondered, even as he knew deep in his bones that he could never rectify this. The look of betrayal on Dean’s face… _I should have told him at the market. Or at least stopped giving him the magic pies. _But Castiel had been enamored of Dean, and reluctantly enchanted by the physical manifestations of the way Dean made him feel. He’d made so many “love” pies over the past few months, created for Dean even when he was selling them at his truck. His face burned over that, now.

Castiel moved to the next message thread, the long running thread he kept with Charlie. He sent her one quick text.

> _Castiel_: He knows.

Then, in the heat of sudden rage, Castiel hurled his phone across the room. It landed with a crack against the wall. When he crossed the room to pick it up, he found it was splintered and black and lifeless. Letting the phone fall from his fingers, he slumped to the floor, pressing his hands to the wood and his forehead to his knuckles.

“Ffff--” Castiel stopped the verbalization. Bit his cheek. Tasted turned onions.

He wished he could shout. _Scream_.

_Fuck._

Kneeling on the floor of his small apartment, Castiel looked around. _Really _looked around.

It was an unremarkable place, sparsely furnished with used furniture and a view directly into the apartments across the street. He hadn’t liked to bring Dean here, preferring instead to meet him out - at Dean’s place, at the Comm, at a restaurant. But Dean had somehow managed to leave his mark here all the same. Dean’s DVDs sat on the low table next to his TV. One of Dean’s flannels was slung over the couch Charlie had talked him into buying.

But worse than seeing traces of Dean was seeing traces of himself. _I’ve settled in here_, Castiel thought with disgust. _Gotten comfortable._ Towers of books lined the wall and he’d put up a few framed posters Charlie had gotten signed for him at a comic convention. He’d even bought the TV after Charlie had soundly mocked him for watching movies on his small laptop screen.

When he first moved to Maltese he’d traveled light, ready to move. Now, he was heavy, burdened with possessions.

_But...I could move_, Castiel realized. He could pack up his food truck and supplies at the Comm over the next couple of days and leave the rest behind for Alicia and the others to keep. His food truck was mobile, it was home, and it would protect Castiel until he got back on his feet somewhere new. Somewhere without Crowley, where nobody knew his secret. Once his secret was out, few people would buy his pies knowing they came from magic. And that would be it: a long, slow decline with his purpose gone and joy whittled away. Every piece of his life was a domino just waiting to be knocked down. Better to take the pieces away before that happened.

So. He could go somewhere new and start again. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Castiel groaned. But it would be the first time leaving Dean. Leaving Charlie. He stared at his broken screen, thumb rubbing along the cracks, and thought about it all. Charlie might miss him, if she ever came back from her top secret trip. And Dean? Could he ever forgive Castiel?

Miserable, Castiel pulled himself up from the floor and made his way over to the couch. He collapsed on the cushions.

“Fuck,” he said quietly. A little garlic pie fell from his mouth. He caught it by instinct, turning the pastry over in his hands. This was his curse. Stupid by most standards, yet utterly devastating. Setting the little garlic pie on the cushion, he curled his arms around his knees and buried his face there.

_I’ll give it a week,_ he decided as he rolled to his side and burrowed into the arm of the couch. One week to see what kind of fallout he faced. One week to wrap up his life here. It’d be fine. Nobody would miss him.

That thought crushed him most of all and he curled in on himself, drawing his knees up to his chest.

Nobody would miss him.

When Castiel woke the next morning, it was to an unrelenting buzzing sound in his ears. Groggy and feeling utterly wrung out, he fumbled to grasp where he was and what he was doing. He was home. He was alone. He was...lying with his face smashed ungracefully into a cushion.

Castiel groaned and a flat, uncooked onion funk of displeasure coated his tongue.

His mind heaved. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, he realized, the strain of the day before and his early morning flight dragging him down like a netted fish in the sea.

The downstairs door buzzed again.

Castiel squinted at his door, then to the window. Nobody ever used the buzzer, except for delivery orders, or drunk visitors confused by the street’s row of identical entries into the condo-style apartment complex.

The buzzer rang again and he pushed himself upright, then fumbled in his pocket for his phone. It wasn’t there. _I broke it,_ he remembered, still feeling sluggish. His heart began to pound.

Castiel stood up with an audible moan as his back tried to stay in the crooked position he’d slept in during the night. Outside, the day looked bright and the sun high. He must have slept through much of the morning. Or possibly into the afternoon? He scrubbed at his jaw, then pulled open his curtain.

His building was poorly situated to show him the door. The upper floors had half balconies that adorned the front of the building - pretty but unable to bear weight. Still, Castiel was tempted to slide open the window and inch out to try to dangle over the edge. However, at four floors up that seemed like asking for injury. As deeply awful as his day had been, he wasn’t that low.

The buzzer rang again, making him jump. It had to be someone with the wrong building number. Hating himself for his neediness, he swept a quick look up and down the street, hoping to spot Dean’s boat of a car parked along it. But there was nothing but the usual multicolored jumble parked bumper to bumper along the street. When Dean picked him up, he’d double park on the quieter street until Castiel could meet him. Surely that’s where he would be if Dean were here.

Disappointment sunk like a stone, quickly followed by fear as a more horrible scenario sprang to mind. He’d heard the rumors of a task force that traveled the city and prosecuted magic users. Maybe they’d found him. Maybe Crowley had finally tipped them off. Or maybe Dean--

Castiel set his jaw. Tried to breathe. _If it’s someone here to arrest me, they can’t come in if I don’t let them. They can’t get me if they don’t know I’m here. _The curtain he’d moved had settled back into place. His apartment was dark and still. He sat carefully back down on the couch, heart in his throat and hands on his thighs, and waiting for the buzzer to stop.

Several minutes later, the person at the buzzer gave up. A few minutes after that, an unmistakable sound filled the air. The roar of Dean’s car filled the air clearly, though distant like Dean had been parked along one of the adjacent side streets as Castiel had done with his rental.

“Dean,” Castiel gasped like speaking Dean’s name mattered, like it could fly down from his window and reach Dean. A little cotton candy puff of a pie fell away and rolled under the coffee table. Out of long habit Castiel retrieved the pie, set it on top of his table, and went to the window. He pulled the curtains to the side again and stared down at the street uselessly. The rumble of the Impala was gone already. There was nothing to see. He stared at his half reflection in the window pane.

_Dean_ had been here? And Castiel had hidden himself away like an idiot. What had Dean wanted? To return his things - his pie plates and tablet, his overnight bag? Castiel remembered the anger lighting Dean’s eyes when he’d said _you gave that to my family. _It was hard to imagine that Dean had any kind words to spend on Castiel.

And yet…

And yet he’d stood and rung the buzzer repeatedly. That didn’t seem like the action of someone who wanted to just hurl Castiel’s possessions at him and leave. Maybe - just maybe Dean had come looking for Castiel. Maybe he wanted to talk.

And if they could talk - even through intermediary means - there was hope. That meant that Dean might not plan on immediately dismissing what Castiel had to say. Castiel needed to apologize. He wanted to apologize. And if he was very lucky, Dean might need to do the same. They could both forgive and move forward with their relationship and Castiel could enjoy it more freely with his secret revealed.

He looked at his reflection in the window. His hair was unkempt and even in the poor image, Castiel could tell that deep shadows undercut his eyes. He looked terrible.

Castiel was in his room, dragging off his shirt before he fully realized what he was doing. He paused with one arm still trapped in a sleeve, before pulling it slowly away and discarding it on the edge of the bed. So. He was going to do it. He was going to go after Dean. Castiel felt like an earthquake moved under his skin. He’d spent his whole life running from the ruins of failed relationships. But with Dean, he had something to fight for. And he wouldn’t give up without trying to reconcile.

Quickly now, Castiel finished changing his clothes and headed out to the rental car. Driving to Dean’s condo felt strange. Castiel was used to being a passenger, or drifting off into his thoughts on the bus. Now, he gripped the steering wheel tightly and cursed every red light.

At Dean’s condo, nobody answered when he buzzed up. Castiel backed up several paces and squinted at Dean’s upper story home, easily visible from the front stoop. He couldn’t see any lights on, or movement in the windows.

Okay. Dean’s not at home. Maybe...maybe he’d headed back to Sam’s home. Castiel drove back to Sam’s house, anxiety chasing him down the highway.

Sam greeted him with surprise, and not a small amount of wariness. “Cas,” he said, opening the door, but not quite all the way. “What are you doing here?”

For the first time in a very long time, Castiel cursed himself for never bothering to learn ASL and blithely trusting his tablet to speak for him. He looked at Sam helplessly for a moment, his mouth falling open wordlessly. And then he let out his breath in a short gasp and said, “Is Dean here?” A pie appeared in mid-air. Castiel watched Sam track it from it’s first appearance just beyond his lips to his hand.

Sam stood speechless for a long moment before he said, “So, it’s true.”

Castiel deflated. Dean had told Sam. Of course he had. What must they think, these two men so scarred by magic as children? He nodded, once. His fingertips pressed into the pie crust and it crumbled beneath the crush of his nails.

Sam shook himself. “Uh, Dean’s not here. He went to find you.”

Castiel rubbed at his lip and once again released the words, feeling vulnerable out on the front porch. “I missed him. He’s not at his place, either.” The pie left a lingering taste of peas on his tongue and it steamed in his hand, green and viscous.

Sam frowned. “Um. Hold on.” He held up one finger and disappeared into the house. Castiel stood there and waited at the half open door. He could hear signs of life in the house. The shrieking laughter of Avery and whuffled barking. When Sam returned, it was with Eileen. She looked worried but strangely it didn’t seem to be directed at Castiel. “Dean got a phone call before he left. On your tablet. He took off right after that.”

Castiel froze. He’d set up his tablet as a secondary phone for the convenience of texting; nobody ever called him. He took a breath. Except Charlie. She might call him if he didn’t check in. What had she said to Dean? “Was it Charlie?”

Eileen watched the pie curiously, but immediately flicked her gaze back to Castiel’s face. She nodded. “He was asking her about your--” She gestured in what looked like it could be the sign for pie. “Pie...thing. And then he wanted to know where to find you.” She frowned. “It didn’t make sense. I thought I read his lips wrong.”

Castiel didn’t want to risk speaking again but he looked at her pleadingly.

“I saw him say...I think...something about a throne room?”

If a stomach could drop entirely out of a body, Castiel’s did that now. Charlie had told Dean about the Throne Room deal? Why? “The Throne Room,” he repeated and his voice shook. “Are you sure?” The resultant pie was a blackened thing and suddenly not caring, Castiel let it drop to the front step.

Eileen nodded, and Castiel turned around without another word and ran for his car, heedless of Sam’s shouts behind him.

By the time Castiel parked outside the shady bar, it was approaching evening. There were a few cars parked along the street. He saw the Impala almost immediately, unmistakable and gleaming in the corner of his eye, and a mark of exactly who shouldn’t be in this part of town.

The bar was dark and dingy, but Castiel felt like he knew every inch intimately by now. Fear could do that. His nightmares recreated every detail, every scent of the place.

Among the very few patrons, Castiel saw two of the usual absurdly well-dressed guards and someone occupying the last booth. Crowley’s booth. He could see Crowley shifting on his far bench, leaning back against the plush crimson walls of the booth.

Something flashed green and brown beyond the edge of the booth and Castiel’s breath caught in his throat. He knew that flannel. Dean sat in the opposite bench, and he was deep in conversation with Crowley.

Castiel rushed forward, but the two imposing women at the bar stood up and swiftly intercepted him. One of the guards lifted the flap of her jacket a fraction so she could pointedly stroke the barrel of a firearm holstered there. She looked at Castiel with one brow raised meaningfully.

Castiel glared and jabbed a finger towards the booth, his demand clear. _I’m going to talk to them. _

“Mister Crowley is currently engaged with a client,” the other guard said. “You’ll have to come back later.” She indicated a table near the door. “Or you can wait there if you like.”

Castiel tried to push his way past anyway and she gripped his coat and hauled him back, hard. “Sorry, Ariel,” she smirked. “Go dry your fins in the corner. Your turn’s gonna come.”

Straining against her, Castiel weighed his options. He could try to push past Crowley’s guards, but that was likely to get him hurt or possibly even killed. Which might mean that Dean would be killed. Which wasn’t an option. He could wait his turn until Dean was done speaking with Crowley, but then it might be too late. Dean might make a deal with Crowley before Castiel could intervene. He made up his mind in an instant.

“Dean!” Castiel shouted. The pie falling from his lips startled the guard and she took a steadying step back and whipped out her gun, leveling it at his head.

“Don't move. Don’t talk,” she advised him in cool, deadly tone, but his shout had worked. Dean turned around in the booth with an incredulous and wildly relieved expression.

“Cas?” Dean asked with pinched worry around his eyes. “When did you get here? What are you doing here? I’ve been worried about you.” There was a slightly accusatory edge to his questions, but overlaying everything Castiel could hear wild relief. Dean was _relieved_ to see Castiel. If he didn’t currently have a gun pointed at his head, he’d be in a mood to celebrate. “You shouldn’t be here,” Dean growled.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. _I could say the same to you_, he thought. But that was a conversation for later when he could explain himself, apologize, and hopefully kiss Dean well enough to make both of them forget the past day.

Dean rose from the bench seat and Castiel started to step towards him again when the woman chuckled. “Oh no. Looks like we’ll have that chat now.” The cold tip of her barrel kissed his temple and Castiel stopped where he stepped.

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel could see Dean freeze as soon as he registered the situation.

Crowley leaned across the table to say something, and Dean sat back down abruptly, his face blanching. Crowley leaned out of the booth and waved Castiel and the guard over with a deceptively friendly smile. “Let’s go, sweetheart,” the guard murmured, giving him a shove.

“Right,” Crowley said once Castiel passed into earshot. He sounded as pleased as a tiger at a game-filled pond. “Now that we’re all here, let’s discuss the terms of our agreement.”

“Dean, what did you do?” Castiel demanded, fear clogging his judgment. The asparagus pie that dropped as he spoke shattered when it fell, the shell was so overbaked.

Dean’s eyes widened and he stared at the pie lying on the floor for a moment, then looked back up to meet Castiel’s eyes. There was fear there but, Castiel started to realize, it seemed to be fear for him. For the gun still trained lovingly on his scalp from inches away.

“Agatha, I think whiskeys are in order,” Crowley said in a falsely warm voice. He turned to Castiel with a pleasant smile. “She could get you a wastebasket? Perhaps a plate upon which to set your, ah, creations? Your call.” He wrinkled his nose. “You were supposed to have a reputation for good pies but that’s a monstrosity. Tell me, though. Do you make a shepherd’s pie? Can’t get a good one in this town. Easiest thing in the world to make, too. Or it ought to be.”

Castiel slid into the booth next to Dean.

“I’ve got his tablet,” Dean said to Crowley, voice tense. “It helps him talk. Can I give it to him?”

Crowley looked a little disappointed, as though Dean was interfering with a game he was enjoying. “Oh, very well. No funny business, etcetera.”

Dean dug into his coat and pulled out Castiel’s slim tablet, sliding it onto the table. “You left this,” he said softly.

Castiel, for the life of him, could not decipher Dean’s tone. He pulled his tablet close and unlocked it, his fingers curled around the edges. “Are you okay?” Castiel wrote.

“Yeah, Cas. I’m fine.” Dean’s voice had an edge to it that Castiel had never heard before.

“So. Your boyfriend here,” Crowley indicated Dean and Castiel felt his skin heat, but Crowley seemed to take no notice. “Stopped by demanding to know where you were. He seemed to think I’d done something with you. Me!” His laugh was sharp and mocking.

“So I found him. Happy ending,” Dean said cooly. “Let’s go, Cas.”

Crowley held up his hand. “Not so fast,” he cautioned. “You haven’t heard my offer yet.”

“I don’t want it,” Castiel wrote. “I don’t…I don’t need the use of my voice back.” In the heat of the moment, it almost felt true.

“Oh, did I tell you it would be your voice? _A voice,_ I mean. I can get you a voice. Not yours.”

Castiel stilled. _What?_

“It’s not like it’s any different than what you’ve been up to with young Dean Winchester here. Getting an artificial voice to cover up for your Betty Crocker voicebox.” Crowley turned to Dean. “I can fix your little boyfriend. I just need you to do me one little favor.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” Dean said indignantly. “He’s perfect.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet?” Crowley purred. “I’m sure sentiment will go far once he’s locked up for illegal magic use.”

Dean narrowed his eyes as Castiel froze. His contingency plan to flee town whirled through his mind even as the thought of leaving Dean and Charlie tore at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” Crowley said. “You know what? This is foolish. Take them out back,” he told the guards. “Where we can have a little more privacy.”

Dean's tension was nothing compared to Castiel’s worry for his safety and he hastily wrote, “Let him go. Take me. Let Dean go.”

Crowley smiled. “Oh no. We’re all in this together now, aren’t we?”

Guards ushered Castiel and Dean back to a quiet, closed back room at the back of the bar. Castiel could practically feel the pistol pointed at his head, like a round ring of electricity. He tasted bile; his stomach roiled.

“Now,” Crowley said, gesturing to Dean who was pushed forward by a guard. “Let’s talk. Because, boy, you’re in way deeper than you know.”

“You’re bluffing.” Dean blustered and Crowley hauled his arm back. Before Castiel could move or cry out, he’d hit Dean squarely on the jaw.

The guard who had been training a gun on Dean had stepped back, her weapon dropped away from her employer. Dean reeled backwards with a grunt and Castiel acted on pure, stupid instinct.

“No,” he shouted, catching the solid pie that fell from his lips, heavy with his shout. He whipped around and launched the pie at the guard training a gun on him. From the brief look of surprise she registered before her face was covered in pie, the guard hadn’t been expecting Castiel to do anything.

Castiel might be a professional baker, but he’d spent years applying the rudimentary fighting skills he had to every bully who tried to beat the magic out of him. He could play dirty, as long as he played to win. Acting on the brief moment of surprise, Castiel wrapped his hand around the barrel of the gun, twisting it away from Dean and out of the guard’s grip. He tossed it across the room where it skittered into a corner. This had only bought him time to get rid of one weapon though, and the other guard was on him, grabbing his collar and striking low. Castiel wheezed at the punch knocking out his air.

He jabbed a hand into his attacker’s throat. She coughed under the pressure but didn’t relent. She delivered a searing blow to his ear that made him feel suddenly seasick. He continued pressing the blade of his hand into her throat, trying to push her away. This close, he could see purple pulsing under her skin, running bright in her strained veins. _Magic,_ Castiel thought desperately. If only his own could prove so useful.

Castiel cast around frantically for a weapon - anything he could use to gain an advantage and get away. He grabbed his tablet from his pocket and cracked it as hard as he could against her skull. She grunted as the tablet shattered and split, but didn’t move. And Dean-- He had pulled Dean into this. Dean, who had-- Castiel’s attention caught on motion to his right, a blur at the tables lining the rooms.

In the midst of the chaos, Dean moved like a cobra striking, lunging across one of the tables and hauling Crowley upwards and inwards across its surface. A knife flashed in his hand, at Crowley’s neck.

Castiel’s scrambled awareness registered guns pointed at his and Dean’s head. And a knife held solidly in Dean’s hand. “Dean,” he gasped. “What are you doing?” A pie thunked to the floor and in the short silence that followed, the two guards recovered themselves. The guard Castiel had been trying to choke stepped back again, her gun steady on Castiel again.

“Drop your weapon,” the guard ordered, pressing the weapon into Castiel’s skin. Castiel sealed his lips against the fear and pain. He watched Dean, his heart in his throat.

Dean only had focus for Crowley. “Listen closely,” he spat. “You may be king of this little corner, but I can take you down as easy as anything.” He leaned forward and whispered something long and angry into Crowley’s ear. Crowley’s eyes went wide and his face drained of color.

When Dean drew back, Crowley lifted his lip in a snarl. “Drop your weapons,” he ordered with only slight strain apparent in his whiskey voice. “Let them go.”

“But Crowley, I--” the guard holding Castiel captive started angrily at this directive. She subsided, though, with one cross look from Crowley. “Fine,” she muttered, and reholstered her gun slowly like a cat resheathing her claws.

Castiel felt frozen, watching as Dean continued to hold Crowley in a threatening embrace. “We walk out of here,” Dean said. “And nobody follows us. Nobody bothers us. Ever. We got things in place to move on you if anything happens to me or Cas here. Got it?”

Crowley grimaced. “Got it,” he said at last. “Let these two yahoos leave,” he directed towards his guards. “They’re not worth my time.” As he straightened, Castiel noticed blood running in a trickle down his throat and he gulped.

Dean stepped back, knife still held threateningly. But Crowley seemed to be true to his word. The man busied himself with straightening his tie and running a smoothing hand over his hair while his guards settled resentfully along the edge of the room. Dean held out a hand to Cas, with eyebrows raised. _I have a million questions,_ Castiel thought. Chief among them was, _Who _are_ you? _

Castiel took Dean’s free hand and together they made their way out of the bar. They walked into the sunshine, Dean silent beside him, his grip way too hard for him to be entirely calm. Castiel swallowed, wanting to say something, and then realized his tablet was still at the bar shattered on the floor.

Castiel followed Dean to his car and stared at him, feeling lost. What should he say? What could he say? He’d brought Dean into terrible danger. There was nothing he could possibly say that could make up for it.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last and a sour cherry pie emerged. Castiel caught it out of long habit and held it in his palm, unsure of what to do with it and knowing he could not hide it.

“Not here,” Dean said, looking around. “Let’s head back to your place, okay? We need to talk.”

Castiel peered at Dean, confused. He didn’t seem angry or worried or…disgusted. He nodded slowly and then pointed behind him to where his car was parked.

“I’ll follow you,” Dean said, and Castiel nodded again, once, then turned and walked towards his car. After a few breaths, he heard the creak of Dean’s car door as it opened.

The car’s steering wheel felt icy under Castiel’s palms as he started the car and pulled out into the road. Dean waited in the lane like a rumbling storm cloud. Shrouded in the Impala, his expression was indiscernible. Castiel let the GPS directions guide him back home through the unfamiliar streets on the darker side of town. When he returned to his own tree-lined neighborhood it was a relief. Seeing the friendly lights of a thousand different homes gleaming into the evening felt like a promise of normalcy.

Castiel clung to that feeling as he parked and waited for Dean to do the same. Dean’s expression was somber and otherwise unreadable as he got out of his own car and carefully locked it. They walked up the stairs to Castiel’s apartment together. Castiel voiceless and unwilling to produce more pies when he so desperately wanted to be normal. Dean was apparently content to follow him up in silence.

Once inside, Castiel flicked on the lights against the encroaching darkness and locked his door securely behind them. The day had been far too harrowing; he didn’t think he’d be able to rest easily for days if not months or years. He closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed suddenly by a memory of the gun pointing at Dean and of the cold barrel kissing into his temple.

When Castiel opened his eyes, it was to find Dean still standing next to him. He raised his hand to invite Dean to sit on his couch, feeling suddenly stiff and formal. And then Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel and pulled him close.

Dean held Castiel tightly, hands pressing into his back and shoulders, hair brushing at his ear, chin on his shoulder. At first Castiel stood stock-still. He had expected anger. Hurt. He’d expected distance. Gradually Castiel lifted one hand and laid it carefully against Dean’s back. Dean gripped him tighter, a silent encouragement, and Castiel wrapped his other arm around him then.

Slowly, with no rebuke apparent, Castiel held Dean closer. He dipped his nose low, burying his face against the curve of Dean’s neck, and breathed in the scent of him deeply. Was it possible that he might still have this? Could he be so lucky as to keep Dean, even after all the events of the past twelve hours.

The embrace was… Nice was too simple a word to properly explain it. The embrace was sunshine on his face, sweet honey on his lips, flowers underfoot.

They stood and held each other for a long time, long enough that adrenaline began to crash down and away and Castiel became aware of pain throbbing at his side and temple.

“So,” Dean said eventually into Castiel’s ear, “You can talk after all.”

Castiel felt himself stiffen. He nodded, chin knocking against Dean’s shoulder. Dean let him go and pulled away.

“But if you talk, then…pies?”

Castiel nodded again, solemn in the face of Dean’s quiet summation.

To his surprise, Dean’s mouth slid into a slanted smile. “Is it always pies, or is that special just for me?”

Castiel fumbled in his pocket for the tablet, then remembering it was broken, tapped his throat and held up a finger before pointing it at his computer, sitting on an end table.

Walking away from Dean felt wrong. Dean let him go, watching as Castiel opened his laptop and pulled up the text to speech program. He typed, “It’s always pies.” It seemed an anticlimactic thing to say after all that had just occurred. He glanced at Dean from his half crouch.

Dean stared at Castiel’s long fingers poised on the keyboard before his gaze raised to look Castiel in the eye. “Charlie...she said you were cursed when you were just a kid. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Castiel raised his brows in surprise. He gestured around them, indicating the world beyond the small apartment before returning his hands to the keyboard. “It’s not something I like to talk about.” Castiel worried his lower lip, then grabbed the computer and sat down on the couch with it resting on his lap. “It became an issue in past relationships,” Castiel wrote, feeling like that was a vast understatement. “I thought I could hide it. And then later I thought I could cure it and you would never need to know. Especially after the Market. I couldn’t.”

Dean looked abashed. He crossed the room, skirting Castiel’s knees, and settled next to him on the couch. Dean’s leg pressed against the outside of his own and as he eased back into the cushions, he leaned his shoulder into Castiel. Dean’s willing nearness filled Castiel with desperate hope. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I get that. So that’s why you joined the study, huh? To have another option?”

Castiel rolled his eyes to the ceiling expressively. “It’s been a long year. I resigned myself for a time to never finding the witch who cursed me. To no cure. To living my life the way I was.” He risked a glance at Dean. “And then I met you.”

“And everything changed?” Dean asked quietly. “Yeah, I got an idea what that’s like.” Dean’s fingers danced across the back of Castiel’s hand, tracing the tendons to his bloodied knuckles. “We gotta get you cleaned up.” His voice was rough and low and when Castiel glanced at him, his gaze was captured by Dean’s look of unfathomable tenderness.

Castiel shivered at his touch, achingly familiar but with so much still unsaid between them. He needed to gather his thoughts but it was proving impossible while Dean was touching him like that. He leaned forward, conscious that he was using his keyboard as an excuse to pull away. “I’m fine. Are you okay?” He looked back at Dean, looking him over carefully. There was redness along his jaw, possibly the start of a bruise, and some flecking blood along his nose. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed.

Dean waved a dismissing hand. “Yeah. I grew up a little rough. You learn pretty quick how to defend yourself in a fight.”

Castiel blinked at this new information. It seemed they both had unrevealed pasts. “And your threat?” Castiel asked. “What did you say to Crowley? Is he going to come after you?”

“Me?” Dean looked surprised. “No. You? Definitely not.” Dean picked at a frayed tear in his jeans. “Charlie called this morning to wish you a happy Thanksgiving,” he said. “When I told her what happened, and that you just took off and that you weren’t answering your phone…” His tone took on a mild accusatory ring. “Well, she shouted for a little bit and said you were probably at the Comm and to look on the roof? And when you weren’t there, and you weren’t at your apartment, she said you might be trying to make a deal with Crowley. She’s a good friend.” Dean laughed and it only held a small measure of strain. “A real good friend, apparently. She dug up some dirt on him while she’s been gone and passed it along to me.”

“Dirt?”

Dean grimaced. “If you can call it that. Apparently he’s got some kind of longevity spell on him right now, and it’s linked to one of his ancestors. So she got a friend to seize their, um, bones. Whoever this ‘friend’ of hers is - she didn’t say. But they were ready to burn ‘em if we didn’t get back safely, which I guess would mean an insta-dead Crowley. But if Crowley plays nice, he gets the bones back and everyone’s happy.”

Castiel stared at Dean, mouth agape.

Dean laughed, this time more genuine. He nudged his shoulder into Castiel. “Yeah, it’s been a long day. ‘Longevity’ spells? Magic crime lords? That wasn’t even on my radar before today and I thought I’d seen some dark stuff.”

Castiel raised a tentative hand and when Dean relaxed into his touch, Castiel began to rub soothing circles across his back. He wanted to tell him how brave he was, and how grateful Castiel felt. What Dean had done - threatening Crowley like that - seemed incredibly dangerous. Several long moments later, Castiel returned to the keyboard. “You threatened him based off of so little.”

Dean shrugged. “Figured if we’re gonna get shot in some shady back room, it was worth a try to see if Charlie’s info was a big enough deal to save us.”

Castiel drooped. “Dean,” he said out loud. A bright green basil quiche dropped and Castiel caught it and set it impatiently on the coffee table. He moved to type again, trying to ignore the urge to hide the pie. It steamed on the table, a fragrant reminder of the curse. “He might come after you anyway for all that. What should I do? I can leave—”

“Cas,” Dean said, placing a warm palm on Castiel’s forearm as though begging him not to speak. “Don’t say that. It’s gonna be okay. Alright? I got a good feeling.” His hand lingered. He didn’t pull away.

Castiel couldn’t speak, but he pressed his lips together and groaned his worry and rebuke. If there was one thing he’d learned about interactions with the magical community, it was that there were always hidden costs.

“I’m _fine_. We’re fine,” Dean said, reading his mood easily. He cocked his head to one side and brought up his hand, laying one finger gently along Castiel’s lower lip. He cleared his throat. “Hey, that noise you just made. Didn’t see any pies? How does that work, exactly?”

Castiel hunched involuntarily. _So we’re back to this._ He stared at the keyboard and tried to unpack the rules he’d discovered about his curse over the years. “It’s a vocalization without words? It’s like a thought on the tip of the tongue. I can taste it but it doesn’t turn into anything. I do have to talk to actually make a pie.”

“And you can say anything at all? And you get...what? Different kinds of pie?”

Castiel nodded miserably.

“That’s...pretty cool.”

Castiel was so surprised that he looked up and made the mistake of meeting Dean’s eye. What he saw there riveted and wrecked him. Dean gazed at him steadily, eyes soft, concern and affection making him seem warm and approachable. The ugly rose of his bruise bloomed along his jaw. Castiel wanted to kiss him, desperately.

“Can I taste it on you?” Dean wondered aloud. He moved in slowly, giving Castiel time to move away and Castiel gasped aloud, or it might have verged on something terribly close to a broken sob. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. His exhalation was like a spritz of honey mint on his tongue and then Dean’s lips were on him, moving, tasting him. Kissing him.

It was a slow, shaky kiss, the kind you have when you’re unsure about it. When so much remains unsaid between the two parties.

When Dean pulled away, Castiel’s thoughts were scattered like dandelion down across a vast field. Dean’s tongue slid along his lower lip, his eyes were wide, his breathing hard. Dean looked scared.

Castiel’s gut swooped for a moment. He was afraid of him. Afraid of Castiel’s curse. It was only when Dean asked, “Was that okay?” that Castiel realized it was a different kind of fear.

Castiel nodded, and then he nodded some more, reaching for Dean and drawing him in. Dean hummed in satisfaction, opening to the kiss. Castiel let out small pleased groan and bright sweet berry mixed with the intoxicating taste of Dean’s lips. _It’s more than okay,_ he thought, dizzy at his own good fortune. _It’s perfect._


	7. Witch Curse?

Charlie shivered in the cold breeze. Flecks of fallen snow danced across the rooftop in artful swirls. “If you’re cold, we can head downstairs,” Castiel wrote on his new tablet before stowing it back into the warmth of his coat.

“I wanted to enjoy the snow,” Charlie complained. “It’s a lot more fun looking at it than driving in it.” She rubbed at her hands and then blew on them, glancing sideways at him. “And I wanted somewhere quiet to talk. Somewhere private.”

Castiel nodded solemnly at her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder in comfort. Charlie had returned a week ago with a shadow behind her smile, and excuses when he probed at her absence. She’d been cagey over texts up until then. He’d been worried and that worry had started to sour his pies if he dwelled on it too much. If he’d been working hard at any one life lesson, it was the importance of addressing problems before they became insurmountable.

“Did you leave for me?” Castiel wrote, dreading the answer. “So you could blackmail Crowley?”

Charlie replied with a dismissive _pfffft_. “Nah, I had that cooking way before I left town.” Her cheerful demeanor dropped. “But there’s something personal that— That you don’t know about me. And I just couldn’t do it over text.”

Castiel grabbed her hand and squeezed it in support. _Tell me. _

Charlie took a deep breath like she was steeling herself for an epic jump, then launched into her story. “When I was little,” she said, “I got scared at a slumber party.” She stared out over the fallow field below them, now spotted with plump piles of snow gathering between the grasses. “I told the parents I was staying with to call my mom and dad, and they took off right away to pick me up. There was—” Her fingers tightened in Castiel’s grip and her tone flattened, like she was trying very hard not to cry. “There was an accident. My dad didn’t make it. My mom—” She turned to Castiel and he could see in her pooling eyes how much it cost her to tell him this. “The doctors say she’s brain dead. I’ve been hearing for years that I’ve gotta let her go. Unplug the machine. But I couldn’t.”

“Charlie,” Castiel said and an orange and cardamom pie appeared.

Charlie gulped a watery laugh and caught the pie, setting it down between them. “That better not be a sad one,” she managed to say with only a slight quaver. “‘Cause I haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

Castiel pulled her into a hug. She sank into his embrace and sniffled on his shoulder. “I ran for such a goddamn long time. But now I’m thinking it’s time to stop. And maybe I gotta—” Castiel could feel her begin to shake in his arms. “Maybe I gotta let her go. I tried to do that last month,” she whispered. “I tried so fucking hard.”

There was nothing he could do but nod in encouragement and acceptance. He understood running, and how the past could catch up at the worst times.

“I need you to come with me,” Charlie pleaded. “I need you to be there because...because I don’t know how I’m gonna face it, otherwise.”

“Of course,” Castiel said, a stout and sturdy shepherd’s pie emerging. It tumbled off Charlie’s shoulder and rolled to the rooftop where it came to rest, steaming wildly in the chilly air.

“Oh my god,” Charlie said with another semi-hysterical snort of laughter, and drew back to look for the pie that had fallen. She gathered it up in her hands where its magic warmed her fingers.

Castiel pulled out his tablet and wrote with a cold fingertip, “Anything. Name the time and we’ll go.” Winter was a slow season for him, so he could afford to take off as much time as she needed.

Charlie looked relieved at this. “You will? Thanks. Thanks, Cas.” She blinked rapidly and looked away, breathing a little too deliberately to not be crying just a little.

Castiel pulled her into a one-armed embrace, careful not to jostle the pie, and kissed the top of her head. Charlie slumped against him, just existing for a while in his embrace.

When she finally pulled away, she scrubbed her hand rapidly across her cheeks. “Uh. So. Change of subject, please?”

Castiel nodded. _Of course._

“I got the text recap of yours and Dean’s little Throne Room adventures. It sounds like all’s well that ends well? You couldn’t find the witch and you also didn’t make a dumb bar deal. You’re still my pie man? With your pie-eating man.”

“Stuck with the pies,” Castiel said aloud, a congealed custard pie emerging. “Stuck with him too,” he said and couldn’t help the grin that spread, or the sweet raspberry pie that emerged. Charlie caught the raspberry pie and added it to her collection, then grabbed the custard and launched it over the side to the fallow lot below.

“Guess he’s a keeper, then.”

Castiel nodded solemnly, draped an arm over his shivering friend, and led her inside for some hot chocolate and proper gossip.

Dean brought his mouth up from between Castiel’s legs, tongue running between his teeth in a pleased way before he moved up to Castiel’s lips. He kissed him gently. He kissed him deeply.

“Mmm, I love tasting how I make you feel,” Dean said, pulling back just enough to nip along Castiel’s lower lip.

Castiel laughed, sated and blissful, and Dean tasted that too.

He drew back and caught Dean’s eye just long enough to sign, “Is this becoming a kink with you?”

“Baby,” Dean smiled, “Anything feels like a kink if you’re involved.”

Over a month had passed since their escapades at the Throne Room. Despite Castiel’s dark predictions that their relationship would slide into ruin from it, it had only grown stronger. He’d told Dean about much of his past before moving to Maltese, and his years-long quest to find the witch who had cursed him. It was easier to talk about the curse now, knowing that Dean didn’t spurn him for it. If anything, Dean seemed determined to compensate for his anger the night of Thanksgiving. He’d told Castiel about his own lonely, itinerant past. Knowing more about the experiences that had shaped Dean only made Castiel more astonished that he exuded so much enthusiasm and care as an adult. Together, they bridged the distance that secrets had left between them. Now, in the early days of the new year, the future felt bright with promise.

Castiel pulled Dean up to settle beside him, closing his eyes in utter satisfaction. They had a good thing going, he and Dean. Castiel was learning sign language at long last, and quickly enough that it was becoming a competition between the two of them to see who could become the surest communicator. Sun streamed through the window, warming their skin. Life was...good. And that goodness was amazing. His breath began to slow into something calm and susurrous, heading towards an afternoon nap curled up with Dean.

A text alert whistled sharply, cutting the silence. Castiel ignored it, splaying his hand along Dean’s back. His phone whistled again. And again.

“You should turn off your phone,” Dean suggested, his voice slurred with contented drowsiness.

The text alert sounded again and Castiel let out a toasted almond groan and reached for it. He blinked at the alerts. “It’s Charlie,” he said. Another alert came in, and he swiped open his phone. As soon as he looked at the screen, Castiel sucked in a breath and forgot to exhale.

Charlie had sent a picture.

> _Charlie: _One of my contacts finally got me a picture. Is this her???

Castiel opened the photo, expanded it, and looked at it. He remembered to breathe. He looked at it some more.

For several years, he’d had a lurking worry that he’d forgotten too much about the witch. After all, they’d only met briefly and that had been a trying and traumatic day on the whole. But looking at the picture Charlie had sent, Castiel _knew _her. It was the witch who had cursed him.

> _Castiel:_ YES
> 
> _Charlie:_ DUDE. I ran her pic through my traffic cam bot. Fifth and Lombard. Headed towards the park. Go now, you might catch her!

Castiel rolled back to look at Dean, who immediately raised on one elbow with a look of concern.

“Cas?”

“Charlie found her,” Castiel said aloud, and the buttery crust was so puffy that it nearly obscured the lemon jam inside.

“Who?”

“The witch. The witch who cursed me.” The pie that emerged was red as blood, the crust a cookie crumble as dark as night.

Dean scrambled upright. “Charlie found the witch who cursed you?” he repeated slowly, staring at Castiel with sudden concern.

Castiel nodded, already untangling his feet from the covers so he could swing his legs wide to stand. He’d get dressed quickly. Yes, he could make it to the park in twenty minutes. Fifteen if he really pushed it.

“Cas!” Dean laid a hand along Castiel’s arm, halting his flight. “You can’t be seriously going to meet her. You two don’t know anything about her!”

“We know enough,” Castiel signed rapidly. Why was Dean acting worried? Shouldn’t he be celebrating? Charlie had finally found _the witch_!

“This chick cursed you when you were a kid, Cas. What makes you think it’s gonna go any better when you’re an adult? Cas!” Dean said, tightening his grip when Castiel tried to stand up. “Look, I’m sorry about everything. All my fear of magic and shouting at you and making you feel like shit— I’m better now, though. _We’re _better now!”

Castiel blinked at him, confused. He nodded slowly.

“What if she makes it worse? What if she _hurts _you, Cas?”

Castiel tilted his head towards Dean, examining him for a long while. Slowly, he traced the stressed creases of Dean’s face, trailing his fingers down to curve against Dean’s collarbone. “I’ve been chasing after her for years,” he said finally. “Please. I need to try.”

Dean caught the pie and tossed it to clatter on the bedside table. He raked fingers through his hair as a muscle in his jaw worked. He was clenching his teeth, and it was with a voice thick with strain that he finally said, “Fine. I’m coming, though.”

Castiel nodded. He wouldn’t have it any other way. And if the witch did try anything with Dean? Well, Castiel would do everything he could to shield him from harm. He fought to calm himself as he scrambled for his clothing, pulling on a blind jumble of pants from the floor and an old sweatshirt from the top of the laundry pile.

As they rushed out the door with coats unbuttoned and hats askew, Castiel felt hope rise up like a souffle. Today, he’d finally confront the witch.

In Maltese, winter held the perfect amount of snow cover during the darkest days like the city was posing for a postcard. Castiel and Dean waded through powdery snow that glittered in the late sunshine as they stalked Central Park looking for the witch. The chill air was cold enough to make each breath just a little painful, but the sun warmed them far more than it had for the past few months. Castiel struggled for composure as they roved the park in wary silence. He had to keep a cool head. This needed to go perfectly.

Giddy thoughts kept trying to interfere: after this they’d go out to celebrate. Like Dean, like nearly everyone else, Castiel would order food by calmly telling the waitstaff his order. Compared to other fantasies, it might seem minor, but to Castiel one tiny, normal activity felt like the height of years of yearning.

“Come on,” Dean muttered as they walked briskly through a stand of gracefully drooping conifers. “There’s nobody here but runners and dogs. Are you sure there isn’t a delay in that security camera Charlie hacked?”

Castiel shrugged. It was a hacked traffic camera. Castiel doubted they could approach city staff and ask them about the data integrity underlying their supposed “ultra-secure” cameras. He scanned the path before them. He glanced behind them.

Steam from their breath streamed over their shoulders. Castiel pulled off his hat, heedless of the cold, and stuffed it in his pocket. Adrenaline overheated him as he turned the possibilities over in his mind. Maybe she’d gone already. Maybe she’d never even made it to the park, and he and Dean were doing fruitless spirals for absolutely no reason. Maybe Charlie’s facial recognition software was too hazy and had made the wrong match altogether.

The park stretched before and behind them, an intimidating warren of thick trees and sculpted hills.

When Castiel saw the witch, he stopped walking altogether for a moment. He clutched at Dean’s jacket and pointed at her. Even if he could speak without pies forming, Castiel didn’t think he would be able to get out even one word.

She was unmistakable, even after all these years. She still dressed all in black, with a long, sweeping gown stirring the snow and what appeared to be a terribly thin shawl slung around her shoulders. She was tall, with sharp features and a flowing mane of hair that would make a fairy jealous. Castiel couldn’t be entirely sure if she’d aged a day since they’d met.

There was an entourage with her, all much more sensibly attired in thick coats and hats. They skirted the edge of the duck pond, several holding bags of some kind of bird food that they scattered as they walked. Ducks followed them like groupies and a team of swans formed a hissing honor guard at the edges.

“That her?” Dean asked, his eyes alight with fiery determination. “I got your back, Cas. Let’s go get her.”

Castiel swallowed and nodded. He led the way forward at first by halting steps, then in a full-tilt sprint.

Castiel tore down the path, leaping over the calf-high rope chain fence that bordered it to shortcut across a pack of terra-sculpted mounds that swelled between himself and the duck pond.

The witch stopped and turned. Several in her entourage did as well. Dimly, he heard Dean call out to him a warning, because some of the witch’s group were reaching into pockets or shadowy coat flaps. But Castiel didn’t care. He willed Dean to stay behind him so he could at least have the illusion that Dean was safe. Castiel crossed the leaf strewn mounds to meet the witch who’d dealt him his fate at last. He’d waited too long to approach sensibly, half afraid that she would disappear like a mirage before he could catch up to her.

Ten feet from their group he halted like a wall had sprung up around them. He swayed, off balance at his sudden stop. His feet anchored to the ground like they’d formed greedy roots. Castiel bent for a moment to grasp his knees, to recover his breath and tug at his feet in vein. He was stuck fast. Behind him, he heard Dean struggling as well, muttering a string of colorful curses.

Two swans waddled towards them, necks snaking and beaks open in angry hisses. At least three people in the witch’s entourage had coats unzipped and hands grasping objects that glinted as they turned to catch the light.

“I found you,” Castiel said at last, staring directly at the witch. Her brown eyes were wide with surprise and a hint of amusement, as though she’d stumbled upon a new street performer.

The witch had been looking at Castiel with puzzlement but as soon as a fig pie as dark as midnight fell from his lips she threw her head back and laughed. “Oh!” she said as though encountering an old friend. “I remember you now.” She smiled at him, for all the world as though she were fond of him. “Have you been looking for me? Really?”

Castiel gaped at her, and Dean answered for him this time. “Of course he’s been looking for you. What do you think happens when you curse someone? They just forget?”

“Dean,” Castiel said, holding up a cautioning hand at his caustic tone. One of the witch’s friends had pulled out something long and silver. Its center gleamed with blue fire, like lightning trapped at its core. Castiel didn’t think he wanted to see how it was used.

“Amara, are these guys bothering you?” one of the women asked the witch, her eyes deadly.

Amara shook her head, then surveyed Castiel and Dean with amusement, brows raised and her bearing like a goddess. She pocketed the bag of bird seed she’d been dispersing into some hidden pocket in her dress and then placed her hands on her hips. “And you are…?” she asked with a quirked smile, looking over Castiel’s shoulder at Dean.

Castiel turned to look at Dean as well, frightened at what he might find. Would the witch now cast a curse on Dean as well? Castiel’s feet were still stuck to the ground, but he could turn enough to see that Dean’s jaw was set in defiance; he had a fighting look to him. Castiel shot him a quelling glare, and wondered if bringing him was a mistake. He appreciated Dean’s earnest defense, of course. But the last thing he needed was for them to walk away with the situation worse than before. Dean’s warning about dire consequences came back to him, and it must have dawned on Dean as well. Dean crossed his arms, settled his shoulders into a more relaxed stance, and said, “I’m Dean. Cas’s boyfriend.”

Turning back, Castiel noticed Amara giving Dean an appreciative once-over and he felt his own gaze grow cooler. “You put a spell on me,” he told her. “When I was a boy.” Castiel let the pies fall to the ground at his feet.

“Yes,” Amara said, her entourage parting like the sea so she could approach him. She looked him over carefully and Castiel felt flayed open by it. He hoped she couldn’t sense his nerves, suspected she could, and held still under her scrutiny anyway. Finally, she stooped down to pick up a pie. It was a sweet potato pie, his mother’s favorite. “You gave me one of these,” Amara said with a spreading smile. “I remember. You were the boy in the street. And you gave me a pie when I was hungry.”

“Yes,” Castiel said shortly. “I was bringing them to my mother and--”

“Your mother in the hospital,” she said. “Is she better now? Or dead?”

“I--” Castiel was so taken aback by Amara’s blunt questions that his words stopped and an empty crust emerged. “My mother is fine. Healthy,” he said cautiously, and filling chased the crust to the ground.

Amara nodded with a pleased smile. “Good. That’s good.” She lifted a finger to trace his jawline. Sparks trailed from her finger. “And how have things been since? You are using your gift wisely, I hope?”

“My...gift?”

“Gift?” Dean spat behind him. “You cursed him, lady.”

“Cursed?” Amara looked genuinely surprised. “I never cursed you.”

Anger swelled in Castiel, anger stored up over almost two decades. “You never cursed me? Every day of my life, I can’t talk to anybody. Not like a normal person. I can’t say a word without a pie coming out! Without magic that I can’t control!” To illustrate, pies thumped onto the grass and rolled against the hem of Amara’s dress.

“My dear boy,” she said mildly. “Normal is both overrated and a burden of its own. To say your gift is also a curse is to acknowledge that...that the sky is both blue and without color right now. It appears as each depending on your vantage point and your perception.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean sounded wary.

“All magic comes at a price. I gave you the power to make pies with the power to heal your mother and as a price, it robbed you of pie-less speech.” Amara swept a curtain of hair back, revealing a disdainful expression. “I’d think saving your mother’s life would have been worth the inconvenience.”

Castiel felt numb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said at last. “What does any of this have to do with my mother? All I know is, I gave you a pie when I passed you on the road, and after that, I was cursed.”

Amara pursed her lips, staring at him in consternation. Castiel’s mind prickled, in the way he always imagined it did while hooked up to Dean’s machinery in the lab. “Oh my,” she said at last, her eyes flicking over his forehead like she was reading a report. “Your memory is _dreadful_.” She sighed heavily, as though acknowledging a deep burden of her own. “Far too frequent an occurrence for the emotionally compromised, I suppose.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel ground out.

Before he could do anything, or try to move, Amara pressed two fingers to the center of his forehead. “I’ll show you,” she said, and then the park around him faded away.

_There was a bicycle seat beneath him. Handlebars. Pedals. A road._

_Castiel rode his bicycle down the evening-lit main street of his childhood town. He carried a bag looped around one handlebar and it swayed with every turn. Carefully, he tried to avoid cracks and potholes. These pies needed to stay perfect. They were for his mother._

_Behind him, his brother Michael jeered. “She can’t eat, dumbass. She’s too sick.”_

_Castiel ignored him, focusing instead on the sound of his bicycle’s creaking chain and thrumming tires. They were almost to the hospital, and then they’d be by their mother’s side for the narrow evening visiting hours. Once there, Michael would see that she was actually fine. She’d get better. Everything would be better once she wasn’t sick anymore. _

_Their mother had been sick for months now, and growing more gaunt by the day. Surely she’d improve soon._

_“Besides,” Michael said with all the authority of an older brother. “Pies are dumb. Baking’s dumb.”_

_“You’re dumb,” Castiel muttered darkly and then someone screamed in front of him. _

_Castiel slammed on the brakes, tires skidding sideways to avoid a flutter of a black-clothed woman in the middle of the street. Behind him, he could hear Michael do the same as he screamed obscenities at the woman. As Castiel spun to a stop, foot coming down to rest, Michael veered around him and raced for the hospital on his own. “Dumbass,” echoed down the street, along with his laughter. _

_“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, looking up at the young woman cowering in the street with her arms thrown up over her face. “Are you okay?”_

_She nodded, dropping her arms like Cinderella in the cartoon after she got her ball gown. “I’m fine,” she said. Tilting her head and examining him closely she asked, “Are you alright?”_

_Castiel nodded jerkily. Then, since he was stopped anyway, he unlooped the bag handles from his bike and checked his cargo. His face fell. He’d made miniature pies for his mother, beautifully baked and golden, in hopes that their novelty would inspire his mother to eat something and bolster her strength. Instead of perfect pies, it looked like he would be bringing her mostly smashed crust and smeared filling. The bag had bounced hard against his bicycle as he’d skidded to a stop. “I’m...fine,” he said, unwilling to explain that he was not, in fact, fine at all. _

_She leaned towards him and sniffed. Castiel stared at her in confusion as she smiled up at him. “Oh, those smell delightful,” she said. “Those pies in your bag. Could I have one?”_

_“Could you have—” What an odd, demanding thing for a stranger to ask him. Her stomach rumbled loudly between them and she laughed and patted it, looking embarrassed._

_Castiel looked between her and his bag a few times before sighing. “Sure,” he said. “Of course you can.” He rummaged in the bag for one that was mostly unbroken, pulling out a pie with only a modicum of spilled filling and cracked crust. “Sorry it’s messed up.”_

_The woman was looking at him strangely again. Castiel rubbed at his forehead. His head itched under her stare. “You gave me the best one,” she said, and it was a statement and not a question._

_Castiel shrugged, embarrassed. He could always make more. He would tomorrow, and bring a fresh batch to his mother. For tonight, maybe he could get her to close her eyes and nibble a few bites, at least. _

_“You’re a good boy,” she said decisively. She tapped him on the lips, once. Castiel flinched back at her touch. “You should be rewarded. Make your mother a pie to help her feel better.” Winking at him, she took her gifted pie and swanned away towards the opposite sidewalk, disappearing around the corner. _

_Castiel shook his head after a long moment of staring, then resumed his trip to the hospital. He arrived to find Michael storming out of their mother’s room. When Castiel looked questioningly at him, Michael shook his head, tears glinting in his eyes._

_Castiel entered carefully. Quietly._

_Inside her room machines hissed like sullen guardians and blue light made her fragile skin look even worse. Her eyes were shut, but only loosely so he could see the white of them through her lids. Her chest barely moved to take in breath now. _

_Castiel collapsed into the chair at her bedside. Everything felt numb. Unreal. He clasped his hands together and pressed them into the mattress like he was deep in prayer. “Please, please get better,” he whispered as he hunched over her bed. “Please get better.”_

_A pie appeared in mid-air and fell the handful of inches to the hospital bed._

_Castiel jerked back, staring at it in shock. A summer strawberry pie sat on the crisp hospital sheets, gently warm to the touch. Castiel opened his hands and pushed against the bed, trying to understand what had just happened._

_And then his mother woke up._

_She smiled at him wanly. “Cas. My little boy,” she whispered. Her hand fumbled for his, and her knuckles brushed up against the pie. She picked it up with trembling fingers. “Did you bring me a pie? It’s a lovely little thing.” The longer she held it, the more color seemed to bleed back to her cheeks. Slowly, she raised it to her nose, plucking out the oxygen line before inhaling the scent of the pie. Her eyes seemed brighter for it._

_She ate the pie._

Castiel came back to the world in pieces. The smell of pine returned first, followed by a buzzing in his ears, and Dean calling his name with anguish in his tone. He grunted and opened his eyes. He was lying in the snow and his head ached terribly.

Pushing himself upright, Castiel was pleased to see that his feet were no longer anchored to the ground. He shifted up into a sitting position and turned to see Dean still straining against the magic that held him. Dean struggled to reach him, but his fingertips stopped inches away from Castiel.

Castiel reached back to grasp Dean’s hand and nodded firmly at him, still feeling half lifted from the earth. _I’m okay._

“You healed your mother,” Amara said, sounding pleased, and Castiel turned back towards her sharply. She crouched in the snow, her dress spread out like an event horizon against the ice.

“I—” Castiel stopped short. “Sorry?”

“Your mother was ailing. You were ferrying baked goods to the hospital. I told you to make her a pie that would make her feel better.”

Digging through the memory, Castiel saw the chain of events through Amara’s eyes. “So my pies can...heal?” The pie that emerged was just as wobbly as his understanding.

Amara nodded and looked pleased. “You wanted your mother well. You made her a pie. She ate the pie. Your mother got better. Voilà!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that?” Castiel asked in frustration, swatting a burned pie as it fell. “I was a kid! And nobody I knew even believed in magic before… Before me.”

Amara hummed and examined her nails. “Yes, most people do assume we’ve all been burned at the stake already.” The group behind her tittered. She rolled her eyes at Castiel. “I gave you a powerful gift that day. The power to heal body and mind with a little comfort food, easily consumed. I’m displeased to hear that you squandered it.”

It was Castiel’s turn to look exasperated. “But I didn’t. I mean, according to you, I healed my mother with that pie.” The truth of it was beginning to sink in, along with awe at the potential of it and fear at the power he’d apparently held sealed behind his lips for so long.

“The last I checked, your mother wasn’t the only person in the world. What do you do with your pies now, young man?”

“I sell them,” Castiel said and for the first time since the curse descended, he felt defensive of them.

“You sell them. And based on what I’m seeing here--” She gestured to the pile of poorly made pies on the ground between them. “You’ve squandered it. You’ve no control over your words, or your mind if this is the result.” Her lip held a sneer. “So you want this ‘curse’ removed?” she asked flatly.

“I…” Castiel said, feeling like he was off balance. “Yes,” he said finally, because that had been the driving reason for so many decisions over the past decade. “I want-- I wanted to talk again without pies appearing. I want to be normal.”

“Every gift has its price,” Amara muttered darkly. “Yours is your voice. I’m not sure if I can undo it, to be honest.”

“But you’re the one who did it!” Dean protested. Amara shrugged in seeming helplessness. “What about true love?” Dean asked.

“Sorry?” Amara asked, looking confused.

Castiel went hot all over and turned back to look at Dean.

Dean refused to look back at him, instead focusing on Amara. “True love’s kisses. How do those work?”

_Charlie’s meddling again, _Castiel thought, half exasperated. But still, he turned back to Amara, hope rising.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said in a half pitying, half condescending tone. “There’s no such thing. Love is too complicated. Love is work. It’s not the key to anything. I’m sorry.”

“So that’s it then?” Dean demanded angrily. “You can’t do anything to fix this?”

Amara sighed. “Well, there may be some counterspells we can try. It’ll be better done at the summer solstice for potency. A gift like that is easier bestowed than removed and…” she squinted towards the sky as though she could see greater patterns than were visible to the mortal eye. “A power boost is always beneficial.” She gestured to one of her entourage, snapping her fingers. “Don’t look for me until the solstice. Pen and paper.” The supplies materialized quickly, and soon Castiel was left holding a piece of paper with a date, a time, and a place written on it as Amara and the rest of her group walked away.

As soon as the last duck disappeared after the group into a copse of trees, the spell holding Dean and Castiel in place broke. Dean realized it first, stumbling forward to embrace Castiel from behind, drawing him in sharply to his chest. “Fuck,” Dean whispered in his ear. He was shaking.

Castiel slid a comforting hand along Dean’s arm, gripping it reassuringly. He leaned his head back into Dean’s shoulder and nodded, nose brushing along Dean’s jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, still heedless of the pies emerging. He’d have to stop talking out loud soon. The pile of pies was becoming entirely ridiculous

“‘M fine,” Dean said in his ear. He squeezed him tightly, then pulled back, tugging at Castiel. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s find a little privacy.”

Castiel let himself be led away from the mound of pies he’d generated and over to a willow tree growing along the bank of the duck pond. Its draping boughs were coated in ice droplets that glinted like peach diamonds in the setting sun. Dean pulled Castiel under the willow boughs and settled against the tree, pulling Castiel back into his arms. He was shaking a little and held Castiel very tightly. “When you were out,” he said at last. “God, I was so scared. And I couldn’t _do _anything.”

Castiel gathered his thoughts, breathing in tandem with Dean as his body calmed. _Dean,_ he thought. _Wonderful Dean. You do not deserve this. _He thought about pulling back and using his tablet, but he needed to say this while the ideas were raw. “I understand if you want out,” he said. “Now that we know there might not be a cure.”

Dean pushed Castiel back sharply so he could look into his eyes; Dean’s brow was lined in exasperation. “Cas,” he said painfully, then kissed him hard. Dean kissed Castiel with purpose, deep and long, like there were ideas beyond words that he was trying to pass between them.

When they pulled away at last, Dean shook his shoulders gently. “Who cares what she said about magic. I love you,” Dean grinned as Castiel gaped at him. “I love you,” he said. “So go on. Say something. _Say something_.”

Castiel gasped at his words. What if Dean was right? What if this was true love? What if intention was all that was needed to wield magic or break curses? “Dean,” he said, and a pie emerged. His face fell and he laughed bitterly. “I'm sorry,” he said. “So sorry for everything. You don’t deserve this.” A ginger pineapple pie tumbled out, sharp and sweet.

“Cas,” Dean said and he wrapped his fingers in Castiel’s collar as though to prevent him from fleeing. He looked intent, on a mission, as he said slowly, “You’re all I need. Cursed or not. And that’s not what I wanted. I just wanna hear--”

_Oh. _Something in Castiel broke open at Dean’s words. “I love you, too,” he said and a shining pie, strawberry sweetness filling the air, fell between them. “I love you, Dean Winchester,” he whispered again and the pie knocked between them, falling off to the side as he pulled him in for a long kiss.

When they finally parted, Dean held Castiel’s palm and traced along the center line - the heart line - with tender kisses. “Say it again,” he begged, this time with a mischievous light. He repositioned Castiel’s palm as though preparing him to catch a pie.

Castiel gaped and Dean laughed at him and kissed his nose. “Say it again, because I don’t care about what you say or don’t say to me. Or how you say it. _Nobody _means more to me than you. You could never make another pie, never say another word to me and I wouldn’t care because I have you and you’re more than the words that come from your lips.” He laughed again. “Become an accountant for all I care.”

Castiel looked at Dean and felt like he was bursting open, too large for his body and higher than the treetops. “I…I love you,” he said at last. Another gorgeous pie emerged. It fell into Castiel’s waiting palm.

It was a perfect pie. Strawberry cream as light as a cloud filled the crust with a swirl and sugar crystals gleamed along the edge. A latticework of dark chocolate crossed over the top like a sweet rope net. _Yes,_ Castiel thought as he looked down at the pie. _We’re bound, aren’t we? _

Dean wrapped a careful hand around the pie and lifted it to his own lips, closing his eyes in bliss for a moment as he took a bite. Then he held it up for Castiel to do the same. The pie burst with flavor, layered and complex. “_This_ is now my favorite kind of pie,” Dean said meaningfully. “I love you, Cas.”

As the sun painted fire along the horizon, they wrapped up in the warmth of each other, hidden in the boughs of the willow tree with the strawberry-sweet flavor of their love between them.


	8. Ever After

Castiel unhooked the strings of holiday lights from the canopy of his truck feeling well satisfied. The Hooper Street market was no Night Market, with blocks and blocks dedicated to commerce and magical revelry. This was just a two block neighborhood market, but with a growing reputation as a destination for purchasers of magical goods. The hand-made pies, cookies, and tarts went over well, but the true star of the evening were the pies he made by magic.

He was used to feeling exhausted after a long day of baking and selling. But these days he felt bone-tired at the end of a day whenever he tried to use his gift to its greatest potential. Despite that, his magical pies now felt like a _gift _and not a curse, at least most of the time.

Learning to use Amara’s gift to create healing pies had taken a lot of practice. There was still so much to learn that Castiel sometimes thought it might take a lifetime to master it. Adding that extra element to his pies - to heal, not just comfort or entertain - took considerably more energy than normal baking ever could. Where magic used to be a shortcut to feed his friends and customers, creating more _purposeful _pies drained him now.

Castiel rubbed at the circles under his eyes and scrubbed vigorously at his temples to try to spark a little liveliness. _I could sleep for a week,_ he thought with satisfaction as he went back to spooling the light strings carefully around clothes hangers to keep them from tangling. He tucked them into a bin and locked the cabinet for transport, then moved on to boxing up a few of the remaining pies.

Castiel ran careful fingers around the edges of the crusts. His pies were earning a reputation. People bought them to seal wounds, cure colds, or lift depression for a while. None of the pies were basic, though many seemed deceptively streamlined. A simple pumpkin spice helped eczema. A sprightly lemon meringue tackled anxiety. They were small pies, with modest miracles contained within. And they were still so much more than Castiel had ever dreamed they might be to anyone.

“How’d it go?” Dean spoke this nearly into his ear and Castiel jumped, then scowled. Dean laughed and laid a steadying hand on his waist. “Somebody was absorbed in their work.” In response, Castiel mimed a yawn - which turned into a real one. Dean’s teasing grin softened. “You wanna sit down? I can finish packing up.”

Castiel shook his head, but laid a gentle kiss along Dean’s stubbled cheek to show his appreciation. Together, they finished taking down the banner and scaffolding and packing them carefully away into their storage box. Castiel unpinned the day’s menu from the truck, which listed the price for pies to heal common ailments and slid it between the counter and one of the truck cabinets.

It had been a good day. The transition of seasons was hard on people and several late spring viruses passed around the city’s residents like overzealous do-si-do partners. He’d had steady business with his robust cold-remedy pies, savory things that stayed blessedly warm for hours. With a few warm almost-summer days under their belts, there were also early sunburns to deal with. Castiel thought he would never stop being amused watching someone consume a bright red berry-burn pie, and see the scarlet flush ease away like it was being sucked into a black hole of jam.

HIs growing reputation meant that more difficult-to-help customers were beginning to find him. He’d met a woman in the morning who’d been battling a tumor. Castiel had promised to do his best to help her, even if it was just to ease her suffering during treatment. The potential of Amara’s gift boggled his mind. He got the sense that he was only scratching the surface of what he might be able to achieve through it.

_I thought I had purpose before,_ Castiel mused as he wiped down the counter and outer display window. _But now I can see it for what it was: running. Running from responsibility, from knowledge, from terrible relationships and fear of ostracism from the people I loved. _As he latched the canopy to the side of the truck, Castiel caressed it. Now Honey Pies had a greater purpose, and a community which seemed well on its way to embracing both normal and magical wares fully, if the burgeoning magical markets were any indication.

“Okay, I think that’s it. Ready to go?” Castiel asked Dean out loud. He grabbed the resulting pie and offered it to Dean, who shook his head and laid his hand on his stomach, making a _too full_ face. He’d taken his team out for a celebratory dinner that evening; their speech assist product had gotten an official green light for production. Dean had promised Castiel first pick of the samples, as long as he still came in for (highly professional, no funny stuff) testing.

Castiel set the lemon-thyme pie, brightly flavored with satisfaction and hope, onto a cardboard box upon which he’d written FREE. A kid from the neighborhood ran forward almost immediately and grabbed it up, tossing Castiel a cheeky grin before disappearing into the loose chaos of the disassembling fair.

“I’ll follow you out?” Dean asked and Castiel nodded. Dean grabbed the large pastry box of leftover healing pies to donate to a food pantry while Castiel settled things back at the Comm. Together, they formed a small caravan through the blooming city streets. Castiel parked his truck and headed inside to finish preparing his kitchen space for a potentially long absence.

By the time he was done, Dean waited outside blasting music in the Impala, one arm slung outside an open window. He winked as Castiel approached. “Hey baby, you want a ride?”

The only correct response to this was an exasperated eye roll. Dean laughed at him and turned the music down a couple notches as Castiel rounded the car and slid into the passenger seat. His and Dean’s bags were packed and taking up space in the backseat. An unopened bag of beef jerky slouched on the seat between them.

Castiel picked up the jerky and raised one eyebrow.

“C’mon, man. It’s my favorite road trip snack! A man’s gotta have more than pie!” Dean paused and his eyes widened as Castiel burst into laughter. “ I can’t believe I just said that.”

Castiel shrugged in innocence, then opened the bag and pulled out a piece for himself. He chewed it happily. _When did I get so hungry?_

“You need more? I thought we’d get a couple hours under our belts before we stop for dinner but we can grab something on the way.”

Castiel wrinkled his nose and shook his head. The jerky would be enough to sustain him through a well-deserved nap. He could eat later. Before Dean could start the engine, Castiel laid a hand on his arm. _Thank you,_ he mouthed to him.

“For what? Driving up to Kansas with you?” Castiel nodded again. “Charlie’s my friend too,” Dean pointed out. “But even if she wasn’t, you know I got your back.” Castiel nodded again, gratefully. He slid towards the middle of the bench seat and settled into a slumped position, so his head could rest against Dean’s shoulder. Dean laughed quietly. “Okay. Get some sleep.”

Settling one hand on the wheel and the other on Castiel’s leg, Dean drove out of the parking lot. They were headed out of Maltese - out of state - to meet up with Charlie in Kansas.

Castiel slept and dreamed about fields of poppies blowing gently in the breeze and Charlie calling for him over the nodding flowers. Under the poppies, her mother slept low in the earth.

By the time they pulled into the motel Charlie was staying at, it was very early in the morning and Castiel had slept for most of the drive. Castiel checked in and then ferried their bags to their room. Dean blinked in the brightly lit room, red-eyed from the drive. Castiel looked at him appraisingly, then pulled out his tablet. “You should have stopped for the night somewhere.”

Dean stretched long, arching his back which let out a series of agonized _cracks_. When he collapsed again, it was with a sleepy smile. “Wanted you to have as much time as possible with her before the solstice.”

Castiel ran a thumb along the stubble cutting Dean’s cheek, then gripped his chin loosely. “You’re so _sweet,_” he murmured and Dean caught the pie automatically as Castiel leaned in for a kiss.

When they pulled apart, Dean laughed wearily. “I’m giving this to Charlie,” he said. “Or I gotta start running more.”

Castiel hummed happily and shrugged. It wasn’t his fault that the very thought of Dean made such ridiculously frothy pies. Well, maybe it was his fault just a little.

While Dean tucked the pie in the mini fridge and stumbled off to the bathroom, Castiel opened his own bag. He’d packed changes of clothes and the usual toiletries that accompanied a longer trip. But under the clothes gleamed new objects obtained from the red-haired ice cream purveyor at the Night Market.

Rowena, the ice cream witch, had listened to their plan attentively and vowed to help. She gave him crystals to concentrate magic, claiming to have been “charging” them for the past fortnight to bolster Castiel’s spelled pie. Castiel hoped they worked to magnify cursed magic just as well as born-magic. He had no way to test them before they needed to use them. According to Rowena, to test them was to drain them and then she’d need to start all over with a new set of stones. To him, they just looked and felt like cold lumps of rock. He touched the smooth side of one. It seemed completely lifeless. Castiel shook his head. There was a lot about magic he had yet to understand.

He glanced towards the bare motel wall that separated their room from Charlie’s. She had been staying at this motel for the past week, preparing herself to say goodbye - or hello again, depending on the success of their endeavors. He hoped - oh, how he hoped that their plan would work.

Dean emerged to find Castiel still standing at his open duffel, staring into space. Castiel was startled from his reverie by Dean sliding one arm around his waist and intoning in mock announcer style, “Earth to Cas. Come in, Cas.”

Castiel shook himself and grabbed up his toiletry kit. He tried to smile.

“Hey, you up for more sleep? I think you should. You still look pretty out of it.”

Castiel shrugged. Now that they were here, he felt light-headed with worry. _What if it all goes wrong? _

“Okay, let me put this another way. I want you to sleep with me. I’m exhausted but...wired? Too much coffee, maybe.” Dean’s hand slipped lower, across his waist, to Castiel’s wide belt buckle. His breath was close, hot and heavy on Castiel’s ear. “You want a distraction instead?” he murmured, pressing close. “‘Cause I could use one.”

Castiel dipped his head back, rolling to capture Dean’s earlobe in his teeth. _Yes. A distraction would be very welcome. _

After a handful of hours of sleep, they met Charlie for an unhurried, late breakfast at the nearby pancake emporium. They went over the plan. “Mom’s in a private room,” Charlie said. “And when I come to visit I usually close the door for a little while. I did that every day for the past week and nobody said anything, so I think we’re good there. Nobody bothers me.”

“She’s had her own room all this time?” Dean asked curiously.

Charlie shrugged. “It’s worth it. She deserves the best, you know? Just don’t ask me how I pay for it.” She patted his hand. “Someone’s gotta stay innocent. Cas already knows too much.”

Castiel snorted at this, and Dean glared at him playfully. “I refuse to be the ‘innocent person’ in this friendship. Just so you’re both aware.”

Castiel patted his hand with exaggerated solicitousness, and got his bacon stolen in retaliation. Breakfast devolved into ridiculous jokes until they all piled back into the Impala.

Once settled in the back seat, Charlie rested her elbows on the seat cushion between Dean and Castiel. “So, we’re ready for this, right? Tomorrow’s the solstice. Do we have everything we need?”

“We’re good, Charlie. Cas has Rowena’s crystals. And he’s really been doing awesome at his healing pies. This is gonna work,” Dean said with more confidence that Castiel suspected he felt. Castiel appreciated the sentiment all the same. “Let’s get Cas there to scope everything out, and we’ll go from there. Rowena says those crystals should stay charged until we’re done tomorrow.”

“Right. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.” Charlie said with a high edge of nerves coloring her tone. Castiel slung his arm back to give her a half embrace. In truth, he needed that comfort for himself as well.

If the drive to the hospital felt surreal, walking down the busy, bright corridors left him feeling uncomfortable and exposed. He’d grown easy in Maltese, Castiel realized in surprise. Spending so many years categorizing himself as an outsider had blinded him to just how much that city felt like home now. Here, in a strange hospital in the middle of the country, he felt raw, like his secret was painted across his face.

“Ms. Middleton!” The perky greeting of a nurse halted their little party. “We’re just finishing up in there and then you can have a little privacy.” She surveyed Dean and Castiel with open curiosity.

“Middleton?” Dean muttered as they passed.

“Please,” Charlie replied in a low voice. “You think I was born with the name Bradbury?” She paused at an open doorway, gesturing at them to stay back. A moment later, a nurse exited the room, pushing a cart of supplies.

“You’re all set, hon,” the nurse told Charlie. “And when you get a minute, stop by the station. Doctor Vancour wants to talk to you.”

“Sure,” Charlie said, her tone falling flat. “Great.” She shook her head at Castiel, a look which clearly said _I don’t want to talk about it._

_Doctor Vancour,_ Castiel thought. Yes, he remembered Charlie mentioning her soon after she had told him about her mother. She was the doctor overseeing her mother’s care. Vancour was the doctor who had been talking to Charlie about removing the feeding tube. Castiel chewed on his cheek, following Charlie inside.

The room was small but pleasant, with a wide industrial window taking up one wall and a pastoral print hung on the opposite side. Taking up most of the space was a large hospital bed flanked by huge machines, tubes, and wires. In the middle of it all lay Charlie’s mother.

Mrs. Middleton looked tiny in the bed, laid out carefully. She had no brain activity, or at least that’s what her doctors had told Charlie for years. It was hard to tell that just by looking at her, though. She might as well have been sleeping.

Charlie pulled a chair up to the bedside and patted the cushioned back. “Whatever happens,” she told Castiel as he settled himself. “You know I love you, right? I’m just glad we’re trying.”

Castiel nodded and reached for Mrs. Middleton’s hand. Her fingers were cold under his own. He closed his eyes, and tried to reach through his gift to understand what she might need. He was acutely aware of his own heartbeat thudding out a rhythm through his veins and somewhere along the way, he got lost in it. Slowly, Castiel spiraled down. The sun, through his closed eyelids, turned the world as red as a poppy. He let himself fall into the steady rhythm of the ventilator as he tried to chase after the essence of Mrs. Middleton. _What flavor is consciousness? _he wondered dreamily. _Pomegranite, to call back the dead? Earthy egg, to anchor the living?_

A sharp rap on the door pulled Castiel out of his meditative state. His head jerked up at the sound and he looked around, blinking at the bright sunshine streaming through the window. His mouth felt dry and tasted full of spice, like he’d upended a cinnamon shaker onto his tongue. He gently laid the hand of Charlie’s mother back onto the bedspread while Charlie answered the door and spoke to the person who’d interrupted.

“You okay?” Dean asked, crouching low beside Castiel.

Castiel ran his tongue over his teeth and along the inside of his lips. _I’m not sure,_ he thought, but he nodded anyway.

“You get anything from her?”

Castiel shrugged.

Dean closed a comforting hand over his forearm. “You got this.”

Castiel nodded again, and tried to smile reassuringly. Nearly five months into trying to tame his gift, and he still felt like he was stumbling around blind. _I don’t know if I can help her,_ he resolved, _but I am damn well going to try._

They stayed until visiting hours were nearly over. Castiel held Charlie’s mother’s hand for nearly all of it, desperate to reach some sort of epiphany that might prepare him for the next day. When a nurse poked his head in to announce that visiting hours were nearly over, Charlie declared them done for the day.

“You go,” Charlie said. “I need to talk to Doctor Vancour and I’m not sure how long that’ll take. I can just Uber—”

“We’ll wait for you downstairs,” Dean said at the same time Castiel spoke up.

“Outside,” Castiel said. “Please.” He caught the exhausted cheese pie and tossed it across the room to the little wastebasket in the corner. It fell into it neatly and Castiel dusted his hands.

“We’ll meet you outside,” Dean said, watching Castiel with concern.

“There’s a little garden on the west side for families,” Charlie told them. “Meet you there?”

With a meeting place arranged, Castiel and Dean headed downstairs. As soon as he passed through the outer doors, a weight seemed to lift. They walked around the narrow sidewalk until they arrived at the garden. Castiel chose a bench in the sunshine and slumped onto it with a gusty sigh. Closing his eyes, he turned his face toward the sun.

Dean settled next to him and they sat in silence for several minutes. “Hospitals are hard,” Dean said finally.

Castiel nodded emphatically. He still remembered the time his mother was in the hospital, how they would pace the waiting room when things were very bad. The look of careful sorrow on a doctor’s face as they walked out to talk to them. The despair that the machineries of man weren’t enough to fix every ailment. He thought about Charlie, dealing with this dance of agony and hope for years and years now.

Around them, the garden smelled like freshly turned earth, accentuated by the sweetness of recently clipped grass. Insects whirred in the hidden boughs of the closely trimmed greenery. Castiel breathed in the garden, and tried to recharge.

He might have started dozing there, leaning against Dean, when a body jostled him from the other side. “Hey Cas,” Charlie said, squeezing next to him on the bench. “You doing okay?”

Castiel shuffled upright, blinking in the sun, and pulled out his tablet. He drew his mouth into an irritable line. “Everyone keeps asking me that.”

“Only ‘cause you’d never say otherwise.”

“Yup,” Dean agreed with a sardonic lilt.

“I could go for a burger,” Castiel wrote to deflect. And also, he realized quickly, because he was desperately hungry.

“I’ll buy you a hundred burgers,” Charlie declared. Her gaze was bright and fierce. Castiel wondered what the doctor had said to her. Whatever it was, Charlie had that old fighting spark in her eyes.

“I don’t think she’s joking, Cas.”

Castiel grunted.

“Charlie, I want a lifetime supply of fries thrown in, too.”

Castiel laughed at Dean’s attempt to lighten the mood, and the lemon rush helped clear out some of the fug from earlier. “I understand now. You only love me for my food,” he wrote, then looked up with an exaggerated frown.

“You got it, babe,” Dean agreed. His grip was solid as he helped Castiel up from the bench. Sandwiched between his boyfriend and best friend, Castiel headed for lunch and tried to push away worries about tomorrow.

The next morning, they moved on the hospital room like a finely tuned strike team. Immediately after visiting hours began, they got to work, unloading their duffels on the stiff seats and passing materials between them wordlessly.

They wreathed the room in fresh flowers and Rowena’s crystals, setting them on the floor, the windowsill, and every surface in the room that looked like it could bear weight and wouldn’t be in the way of the vital machinery keeping Charlie’s mother alive.

Castiel breathed in deeply when they were done. It smelled like a flower garden now, masking the dreary bleached scent of the Middleton hospital room. It smelled like summer. The solstice sun streamed in through the window, lighting the bed in warm gold.

Castiel’s palms began to sweat. Dean seemed to notice his nerves; he placed a comforting palm along Castiel’s lower back and walked with him to the chair by Mrs. Middleton’s bedside. Castiel scrubbed his hands on his jeans, then massaged his nerve-chilled fingers before taking up the woman’s hand again.

“You got this, Cas.” Dean whispered, pressed a quick kiss to his jaw, and stepped away. Charlie didn’t say a word, standing off to Castiel’s other side. He suspected she was incapable of speech right now. Like him, she was a knot of fear and expectation.

Mrs. Middleton gave no response when Castiel’s grip tightened. _Is there anything left to heal?_ Castiel wondered. They were testing the limits of his gift today, stretching them well beyond the confines of what he’d ever attempted before.

It was the summer solstice. The solstice was a day, Amara had explained to him months ago in their encounter in the park, that could bolster spells. In the lead-up to today, he and Dean had talked about Amara at length. She’d delivered a one-time offer to them to meet him on the solstice and undo his curse. Instead, Castiel had decided to keep the magic, and use it better.

Once they’d hatched their wild plan to try to help Charlie’s mother however, Dean had suggested seeking out Amara to learn more about control and the limits of her gift. Charlie had put out feelers. There were rumors that Amara still roamed the city.

Charlie managed to track down a surly, sandy-haired man who seemed to derive great pleasure from being a recent recipient of one of Amara’s curses. Charlie had left him standing on the street, shouting while frogs and snakes fell from his mouth. She’d looked shaken by the encounter when she recounted it later to Dean and Castiel. “It feels like a warning,” she’d said. “A warning to you.” _Mess with me and there are consequences. _They couldn't take the chance that Amara might warp his gift into something uglier. Harsher. Instead, Castiel slipped the piece of paper she had given him into a drawer, so that he would always remember the choices he had made to steer his own fate. _Keep the curse, make it a gift, make it useful._

And so, instead of meeting with Amara, they reserved the magic of the solstice for their own attempts at magic, and hoped it would be enough. _If the power of the solstice is real, _Castiel thought, _let it help me now._

Castiel closed his eyes and sank down low into the pulse of blood beneath the paper skin of Charlie’s mother. He sank low beneath the floor and into the earth beneath them, and waited for the words to come.

He waited, as the sunlight crept over the room.

He waited as the machinery hissed.

He waited and the words didn't come. The ground felt...distant...both above and below him. His feet detached from his body, and his hands as well. Sound became something high and distant. For all he knew, somebody else was holding onto Mrs. Middleton’s hand and praying for the power to heal her.

“Cas,” Charlie said, catching him as he swayed. “It’s okay, we—”

When Charlie touched Castiel’s hand, it was like the world beneath his eyelids burst with color. Or was that flavor? He flipped his hand into hers, gripping her tight, bolstered by what he felt from her.

There was vast love there, deep as a well and thick as the earth. Castiel knit the words he needed together almost without thought and when he was ready, he spoke them aloud.

When he was done, he fell backward, or the world fell forward. Strong arms caught him. _Dean. _

Castiel let himself be supported down into a collapsed pile on the floor next to the hospital bed. He opened his eyes. Charlie stood there and the light from the window wreathed her in red and gold. She held a pie cradled in her hands. “Cas?” she said.

Castiel mustered up the energy to flip her a thumb’s up. With Dean’s help (and muttered curses) he rose to stand next to Charlie again. Curiously, he blinked at the pie.

The pie looked perfectly summery, full of juneberries and plump raspberries that had released their juice in a lacy froth against the finely latticed crust.

“It’s warm,” Charlie said in a wavering voice. “Should I—?”

They all looked down at the woman on the bed. Thin tubes ran into her, giving her air and food. “So how does she eat it?” Dean asked, voicing what they were all thinking.

“I guess I’ll just try a little bit in her mouth?” Charlie said, but her hands shook. Castiel looked at her with great sympathy. He couldn’t begin to imagine how she felt, but he could step in to ease her burden. Castiel took the pie and scooped a fingerful of the filling. With his other hand, he gently pulled down her lip and swiped the pie filling inside. Her mother’s lip closed over the ruby red filling.

There was no sound, save for the distant squeak of a gurney’s wheels in the corridor and the _whoosh shush _of the ventilator. On one of the monitors, there was a sudden movement. It was a small thing, easily missed if the room hadn’t already been as still as death. There was another blip as a line on the screen jumped.

And then the alarm went off.

Charlie clutched the precious pie close to her and stumbled back as the first nurse rushed in. The three of them pressed back into the corner as a cadre of nurses flooded the room.

Castiel dissolved against the wall, heart thudding as he tried to understand what was happening in the room. All he could hear was medical jargon tossed between seasoned professionals, and Charlie asking repeatedly about her mother. _What’s happening? Is she okay? What should I do? What can I do?_

Dean held Castiel’s hand very tightly and their palms were too hot. Everything felt too hot. _What if I made it worse?”_

Nurses ushered them from the room and banished the numb trio to the waiting room.

It had been years since Castiel had spent time awaiting news in a waiting room, but little seemed to have changed. They settled in the soft, gray room, which was stocked with old magazines and a child’s bead-track toy that had seen better days. While they waited, Castiel let Dean ply him with coffee and snacks from the little shop in the lobby until his hands stopped shaking. Charlie refused food, chewed on her nails, and hunched over the pie in her lap. Her eyes were wide and her gaze very distant.

When a doctor came to get them two hours later, they were all exhausted by the wait. Doctor Vancour approached solemnly and settled in a chair opposite Charlie.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she prefaced her news with, “but your mother is responsive. And we’re seeing promising brain waves for the first time since she was admitted.” At Charlie’s gasp, she held up her hands. “She’s still very weak. _Very _sick. We’ve moved her to the ICU for closer monitoring. You can visit her tomorrow. Visiting hours in that ward are over for the day.” Her strict tone brooked no argument.

Charlie buckled into herself and both Castiel and Dean wrapped and arm around her. She cried there in the circle of their arms. “She’s really awake?” she gasped, her hands still shielding the pie in her lap.

The doctor tilted her head. “She isn’t awake, but she appears to be fully responsive to stimulus. She’s breathing on her own. I think it’s too soon to say she’s recovered, but she made a huge stride today.” She looked up towards the ceiling, and smiled just a little. “Some people would call it a miracle, to be honest.”

Charlie gulped and Castiel laughed a little hysterically. Dean clapped a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and gripped him there. When the doctor left, they were allowed to head back up to the room to clear up their things.

Looking at it, the room looked brightly innocent. It was still bedecked with flowers and scattered with crystals. The sun had slid towards afternoon and no longer shone directly into the room. It made everything seem duller, more mundane. Even after all Castiel had seen and experienced, he still had trouble believing it was real. Had they truly healed Charlie’s mother? Had his magic brought her back from her unreachable state? Together, they zipped crystals into bags and consolidated flowers into wild, overflowing bouquets. They held onto everything, like giving away one ingredient might ruin the spell and send Mrs. Middleton back into relapse. Through it all, Charlie cradled the magical pie.

Afterwards, Dean and Castiel ushered Charlie back to the motel and settled her in her room. Though she’d protested their coddling, stress had left its mark. They took turns watching over her that night as she slept more soundly than she likely had done for weeks or months. Charlie slept with her hands curled around the still-warm pie with the bags of crystals close by and bouquets of flowers heaped at the foot of her bed.

In the morning, Charlie went alone to visit her mother in the ICU while Dean and Castiel did their best to distract the nursing staff just beyond the wing which held Mrs. Middleton’s bed. Dean had descended into full flirtation mode. _It’s a bit like looking at the sun, _Castiel decided as he pretended to have absolutely no interest whatsoever in his very attractive boyfriend and every interest in the story he was listening to about bunion care.

When Charlie emerged again, she no longer carried the pie. She had used the time to feed it to her mother in tiny portions. Charlie waggled her fingers at them and grinned.

Dean and Castiel took it as their cue to extract themselves and joined Charlie as they headed out of the ward. As they retreated down the hallway, doctors shouted at each other to go check out the vegetative patient who was not only awake, but complaining from her intensive care bed about wanting to go for a casual stroll in the garden. And was it so much to ask to get her beloved daughter back in there? They had a lot of years to catch up on.

When Charlie heard this, she stopped in her tracks and turned back towards her mother’s wing. Dean gave her a gentle push. “Go get her, kid,” he said. Charlie took off running. In the chaos, she slipped in and disappeared behind the curtain to be with her mother. From the hallway, they could hear Charlie’s voice rising in ecstatic greeting and the warm, low tones of her mother.

_We should give her some space,_ Castiel thought, remembering his own mother’s miraculous recovery. He’d wanted to stay by her side for days afterward just to make sure she was really okay and her recovery hadn’t just been a cruel dream. He pulled Dean the rest of the way out of the ICU.

“You did it,” Dean crowed as they emerged into the quieter hallway. “You actually did it. You saved her, Cas.”

Castiel halted in his tracks and pulled Dean into a desperate embrace. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he whispered, expertly snagging the light-as-air pie that emerged. _You believed in me. And you didn’t leave me because of my magic. _He tried to convey that through the iron hold of his arms and his whuff of relief whispered softly across Dean’s nape.

“We make a pretty good team,” Dean murmured, holding him just as hard, and Castiel grinned at that.

After so many years of struggling against the magic inside himself, nurturing and exploring it felt like a revelation. There were so many ways to speak - for communication, for joy, by computer or voice - and now he was learning to speak for a greater purpose. _We’re a great team,_ he thought as he turned to taste Dean’s lips. _And together, we’ll soar higher than I ever dreamed._

Outside the hospital, the sun painted the summer-sweet, greening world in emerald and sapphire as the new season began in earnest. In Maltese, the effects would be radically apparent, with suddenly-bloomed flowers painting the streets in rainbows. Kansas was more outwardly normal, but Castiel thought he knew better now. A little magic existed everywhere whether it was acknowledged or not, and like a pie crust holds a filling, love held everything together and made it whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Don't forget to leave kudos and heap praise on Far_To_The_North's [art masterpost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21394852)!
> 
> And don't forget the [rebloggable Tumblr masterpost for story and art](https://whichstiel.tumblr.com/post/188999454251/deancasbigbang-title-honey-pies-author). _blows kisses_
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whichstiel) and [Tumblr](http://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) @ whichstiel. You may also like the Supernatural recap and gif blog I co-write/curate, [Shirtless Sammy](https://shirtlesssammy.tumblr.com/).
> 
> For a sadder version of this fairy tale (you know I love me some SAD), listen/read [Neil Gaiman's retelling](http://fairytalenewsblog.blogspot.com/2009/08/neil-gaimans-retelling-of-diamonds.html).


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